Gravedigger

The skink may let her azure tail break away
            in the mouth of a snake and survive, but who
can know if she does so without pain, or how
            it feels to regenerate an iridescent extension,
flashy skin distraction, shorter in the new form?

Why tell the myth about birds that if the young
            are touched, parents will abandon them, move on?
If a fledgling falls, return her to the nest. The mother
            hovering isn’t thinking of flight, of wings. Here,
a chance when human hands can save something.

And if the ants are diligent in moving
            as many eggs from their colony to the next
hill as they’re able, to praise their hustle
            does not make a shovel that disturbed the dirt
a force to give thanks for. Don’t ever say

a second daughter will be dearer because
            we’ll never again see the first.