Jackdaw

In a cranny, in the attic,
you will find a jackdaw;
dead - but not rotten -
dusted like a rolling pin.
The spiders have been working in shifts;
she has a bridal dress,
a veil. Her eyes are blind like gravel,
blind like shale.

Bad weather and a broken wing
coaxed her in, then
a skitter, wet flutter.
You shoved a leather case
stuffed with old drapes
into the space
where she, unnoticed,
jilted, lay.
She scuffed the hardboard
panels hammered over joists,
got pressed
against the cold cheek
of the eaves,
still struggling.

When you go to her,
do not wear gloves.
Take a candle and a shoebox
lined with tissue paper.
Touch her, as you would have
your loved ones touch
you when you lie
in black, unseeing, powdered.