Holy Hour

Carrie is a crimson cardinal
a bird blindly believing,
the tropes and cliches:
female birds
mama birds
girl birds
bird birds
they must all—

[she does not see]

you can find her perpetually perched
on your front stoop, food in hand, an offering
she has twigs and bark
spider silk and mud
a special stash at the ready for your shelter—large or small
and when you fall
you’ll see her scarlet wings swing your way, a first responder
always there

when she’s home,
and your needs no longer pull
she sits down
melting, a puddle on her leather couch
tired, less than, self loathing
a bird who leads her life for all the others
ignoring her needs, for it is easy, intuitive, the least she can do really

so she eats to heal,
sleeps longer than most so she can fill herself back up
because she is last in line most days

but there is this one holy hour
after she has walked and fed her babies,
after she has made dinner for her wife,
after she has done all the things that have to be done,
there is one hour

One holy hour
In which she will sit wrapped in her heated blanket
inside the cozy nest she built for her family, journal in hand
coloring book next to her
phone playing the winddown playlist

This is when she begins her day
This is when she is most red.