from THE BIRD ARTIST
In the beginning, there was scarcely room for birds or children or even love.
The ghosts took up too much room, walking the floors and knocking
into tables. We'd take turns opening our mouths and the creatures
would fly out single file. The doubt we harbored in the belly, so far down,
but the doubt persisted. As children, my sister and I would whisper between
us in the bed. Draw sticks from each other's closed fists. This one,
the man with the magnificent house. This one the penniless artist.
The babies, fat-cheeked in the bassinet. Cupboard full of dresses
and a kitchen full of cakes. But the body would scarce produce.
Sheeted in the attic, dusty as a field. The woman with the crystal ball and the son
with a limp held my hand in the dark and forecasted a passel of squalling infants.
Sill, when they arrived, a surprise, each one. Plucked from the wraiths
in the cellar. Each one prettier, but far angrier than the last.
