A new poem by Kim Cope Tait.

Not Waving But Dying

The day we moved in
to the house on the peninsula
I stood before the picture window
that faces the harbour. Oh, I said,
I’m going to die here.
It wasn’t macabre, no fantail arrived.
And I wasn’t afraid.
I just knew I had landed at last
in the place of my dying.
I lifted my palm to the sea, just so.

I did die in that house—to my old life.
And a fantail did arrive the day
that I announced my leaving.
She flew in through the open door.
The man I was leaving
waved frantically,
fear of the literal rising in his throat,
turning grief to terror in an instant.
I extended my hand to her softly.
She did not alight there, of course,
but paused mid-flight
as if considering.
And then she was gone.

This morning, before I could scroll away,
my eyes landed on the body of a boy—
reaching skyward, his jaw hanging open.
Burned alive while sheltering
in a school in Gaza.
I thought I saw a fantail
alighting on his raised hand,
but it was only ash.