by Kassie Frid
On my death bed I raise my head
for further deliverance.
The window has a gift
of providing a safe space
filled with sound bird victims,
and lime green buzz cuts.
In my final hours
The birds and I remember not,
of empty cereal boxes,
and broken crossword puzzles.
We sing together, the song of crumbs
left cold—scattered letters,
spelling out a name that only
could have been.
****
Kassie Frid is a writer, student, and server based in Montreal. She loves to write letters. Her poetry is forthcoming in The Pit Magazine, but you can find her prose online in mai/son’s zine, or on her Substack, titled “far from discreet.