Multitude by Lia Chechelashvili

A Sparrow girdled within 

a winter garden I stop. 

An enmeshment of baby bats. 

Angles twine in the scene where 

a calico eye’s found bounty. 

I didn’t realize how many 

times I needed to wash my hands. 

In life, I am failing at hygiene. 

A plastic toothpick does more 

harm than good, second person

glaring up at me. Why you 

glaring up at me? 

I’m a ripe egg, feathered,

vulnerable as a blind mouse. So shoot, 

burn, throw your throwing knives. I am 

stronger than, at least, calving glaciers,

I am rising from a deep 

rich brown ground. A darkness falls away.