Bird in a coffin

A St Sinjin prose poem

It isn’t her story.

I cradle Isla’s head in my hands, her weight pins my fingers to the earth. Her curly hair rasps across my skin as I brush the back of her head, looking over her sweet face. She is dusted by the Sun’s rays, a girl who hated being indoors. She never fussed at the distances we have walked together. The scar on her bottom lip widens as she smiles at me. Her eyes fill with tears as she may face. She always smiles at me. Always.

“You can cry,” Isla whispers.

It’s a beautiful day. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, a breeze wreaths our bodies with its calm. Birdsong frets the quiet.

Her freckles smear with the flowers in the field. Hot tears flood from my face, refracting the burning bright into my eyes. I tuck my face into my chest, my fingers untangling her curls feverishly as I dab by cheeks with the hem of my shirt.

Isla didn’t want war, she wanted to be a bird, always in the sun, out of reach of cages.

My stomach twists. I looked too far. Blood smears the scene, spilling from Isla’s stomach, clotting her to the earth.

Isla sputters. Red dusts her freckles. She smiles. Her teeth pink.

The knot in my stomach wrenches tighter. I swallow, furiously plowing through her golden hair. Her skin is feeling damp against my fingertips. The wind spills June’s humidity over us. I swallow, looking at the woods ahead of us, where the arrow had flown. It happened so fast. We were plotting ahead, looking for any danger while everyone else stayed in the camp - and then, she just fell.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Isla, honest, I -,”

“You still don’t see,” Isla whispers. She takes longer to look at me, her eyelids heavy.

“What?”

This isn’t her story.

The wind plucks at my shirt. I look, no one is around. I bite my tongue. I can’t scream, I want Isla to keep smiling, she feels colder. Another wave of ache presses in my eyes. I don’t see anyone. I swallow. The bitterness of fear makes me tense. How many of my friends will I have to hold like this?

“Rowan… Ro.. wan,” utters Isla. Her fingers drag across my wrist. I flinch at the chill. Isla is staring at the sky, her eyebrows fretted as she studies clouds.

A tear rolls down my cheek.

She has to go now.

Isla’s dyed lips open then shut, open then shut, her eyes bright as if she is conversing with someone. Her breath rattles from her throat.

“Isla?”

“The arrow… I will show you .. who had the arrow..I see… it.”

No one is in the woods. The archer’s shadow stale from the umber.

“Don’t go too far,” I whisper. Her curls are undone. I can’t keep her here any longer.

Isla smiles, like always. She closes her eyes.

“Don’t be scared, Rowan. Rowan. Don’t be scared,” Her eyes burn bright as she beams at the sky. A vulture spirals above us. Her chest flutters as she watches in wonder “I have magic. Watch.”

In an exhale, her body falls quiet. I felt the weight in my hands. Her eyes gaze. up at me. I close them. Tears bead her lips, diluted pink streaks her chin. She always smiled and I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

Don’t be scared, Rowan.

I laid Isla flat in the grass. I looked from her silence to the ripple of canopies in the wind.

We have our own paths.

A bird can’t be in a coffin. She has to fly. So I left her, in the weeds and flowers to fledge her wings while I went into the woods to find who made ghosts without attending their funeral.

*

This poem was inspired by a submission call for a literary magazine. The theme was “side characters,” which I absolutely loved! Unfortunately, I snagged on this project and thus, I did not submit it. Fortunately, I get to share this piece with you. Enjoy!