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Poetry and Medicine
August 18, 1999

Another Day

Author Affiliations

Edited by Charlene Breedlove, Associate Editor.

JAMA. 1999;282(7):616E. doi:10.1001/jama.282.7.616

Tiny panicked breaths
fog the glass, your beak flared, halting
on the sill between thrusts at the impossible
green outside.
Back door towhee
scared in from the feeder as I crossed the lawn,
your heart must explode
when you dodge my towel-wrapped hands,
and a charcoal feather, frayed,
with a notch of white at the tip,
rests on the floor by the television.
Again you lunge toward the photinia bush,
the sight of home turned inside out.
I dumbly say, I'm late for work,
I who must embody terror,
but now, your breath my breath, I'm quick
enough to gather you away from the pane,
and on the porch, you shoot
out of my hands.

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