A Poem for Broken Friendships: Song Thrush

Thrush Anvil

Come, past the birdwatchers
sitting on the bench with their binoculars.
Come to where only the trees
can hear us sing.
Come with me to see my thrush anvil.

Look at the scratches and stains
down the sides from years of use.
Look at the broken shells
on the ground.

That one, the burgandy and burlywood
spiraling towards the center,
cracked around the edges, talon
scratches down the middle.

That one, half buried under dirt. Time
will finish burying it, tiny pieces
already lie scattered under
the golden leaves crunching under
your every step. It'll never
be put back together.

Pick it up.

Close your eyes and feel it.
The smooth, unbroken
surfaces. The jagged edges,
weak spots cracked under pressure.
You might feel it fluctuate, inhale
and exhale.

Wait for the wind to stop rustling
the tall reed grass.
Put the shell up to your ear.
You won't hear water
as it crests onto a beach. You
might hear half of an inside joke.

Look at this piece,
flipped upside down.
Collecting water,
weighing it down.
Look, deeply,
into the water it's been collecting.

You might see your future.

You might the faces of the people
who trusted me once.