Eric Norris

I find you on my windowsill,
Desiccated, mummified, wrapped
In mournful dust. Your richly complicated
Ruby eyes have shriveled into

Horrible dried strawberries. Still,
I want to say a little something (not unkind)
In memory. I find myself
Picking at you with my pencil point.

A wing breaks off immediately. I fetch
A pair of tweezers from my vanity.
I hold the wing up to the sunlight and I see—
To my astonishment—stained glass:

Truly illuminated manuscripts
Telling half-remembered tales. One where
You are the brainchild of Beelzebub.
And one where God is Love.