Intervening

I.
I first saw you, small annoyance, as you fluttered
around the bathroom while I brushed my teeth.
Occasionally you bounced against the humming light.
Then I saw you cling to the green tile
as I stepped into the shower.
I thought you would leave, and I forgot you.
But soon something skipped joylessly around the drain.
Were my fingers angels or torturers
as I struggled to fish your body—
once gray satin, now matte tan with damp—
from the millimeter or so of warm water?
I laid you on a loofah.

II.
The next night I prepared for bed or writing,
and you scuffled past—
flightless, silvery.
I coaxed you into a paper cup,
transported you downstairs, outside.
My potted geranium is strong.
All its leaves were once taken by starlings,
and now it is pink and green.
Under this geranium I placed the cup on its side
so you could crawl out and climb the stems
if you wished.

III.
Did you join the bats on repaired wings?
Was your corpse brushed aside by a breeze
or plucked from the pot’s soil by a bird’s beak?
The cup is empty.