from THE BIRD ARTIST
You can pluck out the heart and replace it with ash. The thrashing
of wings and feathers lasts only a second. Wire tongued, stiffed
with news print, it almost seems like a real living bird.
A real living girl. Or the one made of wood, poised outside the pharmacy.
Her ornate box. How she could tell your fortune for a dime, spit out
between her lips. Nothing below her hips but a deep cavern filled with coins
and paper. Nothing beneath her dress but spookiness and nesting sparrows.
You can pluck the song out and replace it with static, like a radio signal coming
far across the valley and down into our mouths. The houses
we burned to find the one with just the right amount echo. The men
whose hands forced open our throats and planted the seed.
You will go on a long voyage. You will find love when you least expect it.
Ask again later.
