The Pond

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Yesterday
the boys drowned a blue jay
in the pond you dug for me
that summer I miscarried
from a kick that found my abdomen
instead of my legs.

It is filled with pebbles and tiger lilies
now,
and a few wayward leaves
have found their way in.

They took a round stone,
crushed the bird’s legs,
and
dropped her in the stagnant water.
I saw from the safety of my window
the ripples it made,
uneven and broken,
as they stood in stoic silence,
little men and their first righteous kill.

I felt the open wound on my lip
left by your wedding band,
touched my inner thigh –
tender
from the sole of your shoe –
as my boys,
your sons,
looked at the blue jay carcass
floating in the pond

that was supposed to be my consolation
after you killed your child in my womb.

It was a boy,
the nurses told me.

Perhaps it’s best.