Birthright

for Kris

Birthright
for Kris

She cleaned the cooling bird 

outside the kitchen window, her deft fingers rolling

the feathered skin like socks

tearing the gossamer threads of connective tissue 

until the pale lines unfolded, steaming

on a bed of damp umber leaves.

Memory is relational, like freedom.

Just that morning 

a bear had pressed two rough hands against the glass

and for a heartbeat, knew us 

before pushing away in a river of ink

staining the window 

bereft, the forest brimming 

with grouse and bears and autumn mornings and

her.

Decades later, she has left

this sifting time

of plaques and tangles, of authoritarian

tales of uncrossable gaps. 

This morning, another grouse purred and clucked 

after bear paused at the window, measuring 

the distance between us, wide

as a synapse. Belonging to ourselves

is undeniable 

until we deny this of each other. 

In the indelible, teeming forest

she gathers up feathers, hands capable and sure.

Memory can be fragile, like freedom

unless it is not.