Of Broken Wings

The old man
held the delicate broken wing,
the bird whimpered.
 
Like an expert
he stroked the bird gently,
wrapped the wing in cloth,
securing it calmly with tape.
For the next two weeks,
he fed the bird
and nursed it back
to its glory in the skies.
 
Sometimes, on late afternoons,
the bird would visit the old man
in his little prison cell,
chirping noisily and hopping around
on the windowsill -
delivering a performance of its lifetime.
 
At other times,
it would bring small tokens as offerings:
beads, buttons,
twigs, pebbles,
berries, seeds,
pen caps, key chains
and other curious objects
that warmed his heart.

One Sunday
immediately after the new year,
the bird
delivered a sharp piece of broken glass.
The blinding light
reflecting off the piercing edges
stabbed into his heart,
carving out a capsule of guilt
buried deep within:
the torment, the rage, the terror,
and a broken beer bottle,
three slashed bodies in a bloody pool
three tattered souls laid bare in time’s ridicule.
 
It's a late autumn afternoon,
and the bird
hadn’t visited in three months.
As a feather
danced delicately in the chilly air,
his trembling fingers
traced its descent
and his labored breath
was weighed down
by the trials, tribulations,
and temptations
of a past life.
 
His empty eyes
gazed
at the tiny objects in the room,
his weary mind
pondered
if redemption is truly possible.