Luci Huhn
Luci Huhn is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, whose poems have appeared in Ploughshares, West Branch, SWWIM, LEON Literary Review, Rattle, and South Florida Poetry Review, among others. Her chapbook, The Years That Come After, was published by Breakwater Press. She lives and writes in Southwest Michigan. Find her on Instagram @LMHuhn.
As I Meditate, a Bird Hits the Window
Keep it simple, the guide said,
focus on the wave of the breath.
That’s when a common
house wren hit the glass,
fell to the ground below,
golden as an autumn leaf,
small as a child’s glove.
The bird was all amygdala –
fight, flight or freeze –
panicked into stillness,
her eyes glassy as the lake
on a calm day. Not like
my aunt when she was
dying – she could not
keep still. Carphologia,
the nurse called it – collecting
straw – a restless grasping
to the end. She tore at
her gown, at the tired bed linens –
picked at the air for any bit
of fluff. We gave her
a pink sponge to squeeze
in one hand, a knotted washcloth
in the other – all we had –
until her eyes closed
from the sweet relief of drugs.
In the mulch below the window,
the common house wren
took in the day’s beauty,
the flickering light.
Don’t fight it – the guide said.
I’d like to say I hovered over,
held her in my hands,
thought to get a cushion.
But, what do I know of birds?
I studied the rise and fall
of my own breath, pressed
thumb to forefinger as if holding
onto straw to build a nest.
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Image by Ksenia Makagonova from Pexels
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