By B. R. Jayne

It was a squirrel in the garbage can digging for food
He was so close I could count his whiskers,
name every spot that had seen struggle on the flesh of his stomach
His eyes met mine and I smiled, turning to you—

While Lucifer plummeted, did he try
to use his wings to slow his descent
before realizing
that they had been ripped from his body?
Or did the misery of their absence remind him with every rasping breath
that they were gone

I turned to you.
the squirrel blinked, scars on his skin shifting
When I realized you were gone I wondered
how long ago the pain had receded enough for me to forget
as if forgetting is any less painful

I’m sure they were beautiful
Where does God keep them?
Maybe the heavenly mantle, a warning and promise
or perhaps to show off his craftsmanship
Unless he threw them after his child
to flutter uselessly in the wind
Never would he forget if they were in front of him, tormenting
but the urge to try wouldn’t go away, I am sure

The squirrel finds a molded cube of waffle,
eating away at the edges like it would be taken from him at any moment
For a second I want to guard him to prevent such a thing
but he scurries off suddenly, waffle falling back into the garbage
I am alone again
This time, I will not forget

About the Author

B. R. Jayne is a transgender trauma-carrier poet and creator. In life and on paper, Jayne explores the complexity of human relationships, ties to God and religion, and the ever-present figure of Death in a society so devoted to life. Jayne lives in Minneapolis, and has a cat named Biscuit.
.