the last quail 

sometimes i still see her ghost.
her heart the size of
a sunflower seed.
quails do not live long. two years
at the most. they were going on three. 
we started with eight. 
the boy who sung in the morning
& all the girls who laid 
the most beautiful eggs.
blue shells & speckled brown shells.
those little moons 
in our skillet. yolks, like plundered suns
buzzing on our tongues. 
one lost an eye to her sisters.
the boy, taken by a hawk 
one afternoon. as a girl,
i used to pray the rosary. i did not 
even believe in god. i just needed 
something to do with my hands.
the birds, like beads.
a thumb passing over our skulls.
the promise that we are
on a string of miracles. no matter
how brief & terrifying. 
i sat with the last quail
in the morning on some of her 
final days. i told her secrets 
that i do not want to tell you.
she always listened. told me
that she saw the rest. 
heard the boy singing like a 
legless flute. i do not know 
what to means to hold on 
to one another. why is everything 
so brief? the quail's ghost comes
to scold me. she says, "our brevity
is a gift." i am still trying
to understand what that means.