family history

My sister found a baby bird—
Fallen—
Far from the nest.
I'm teaching it to fly,
She said, swinging it from a rope
Tied around its delicate neck.
 
My father caught a catfish
From the depths of Hells Canyon.
He fought that whiskered bitch
For the better part of a
Scorching afternoon.
The meat he culled from its
Fingernail-white bones
Was slick and pliant;
The muscles of one meant for
Cold, dampness and dark—
Pulled, unwilling, into the sun. 

My brother spied a roly-poly—
That armadillo of the insect world—
Under a rock in front of our
Dead grandma's house.
He climbed the peaks of our fingers
‘Til we delivered him to a
Clump of daylilies sandwiched 
Between the river and the
Windows of the public library,
Golden flowers tall as towers in 
His tiny eyes.

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This poem is the result of Foster’s Season 3, “The Art of Modern Writing.” Today, we celebrated the closing ceremony and hit publish, together, on the writing that we worked on for weeks. Thank you to Russell Smith, JG (of Daymaker), and Alice Sholto-Douglas for your insightful, thoughtful feedback.