by Deborah Rose
On my ninth birthday
my grandparents gave me a card
that sang like a robin when opened
and shut up when closed.
So I opened and closed it
and opened and closed it
and opened and closed it
until the robin’s throat
got sore and scratchy.
Feathers shrivelled,
bones snapped
and it fluttered
to the floor.
I still have the card
but its song is no more.