The blueberries were on sale.
Hundreds of containers sat on a table
in the front of the store,
simply wasting away.
I placed the abandoned fruit in my cart.
They’re best when left in the freezer,
less mush, more tart,
but I’m eager to try them.
My bird helps me, picking up her deflated
piece and setting it down into her dish.
She clicks her throat in approval.
Her beak looks like it’s been stained with ink.
The whole world is not in my hands;
it’s a pale blue dot I roll between my fingers.