undone

by Tova Feldmanstern

i imagine the crumbling of a cookie or a cracker
into parts so small that birds flock to eat them
all at once, a community of birds, each delighted

i remember the afternoon they told me it was over
14 weeks pregnant with twins; suddenly hollowed,
how the nurses each told me a story of their own

or the way a candle seems to burn a little brighter
in the final moments before it’s extinguished, as if
to prove it won’t give up without its making point

every old t-shirt, faded pair of jeans, worn blanket
which no longer serves its original function, then
serves a holier purpose, as the ultimate reminder

that there will be a day when one of us wakes up
to find the other gone, considers leaving too, but
finds a way, somehow, to do our undoing justice