I gave myself a mouthful of ulcers
thinking of all the birds buried
underneath my bed.
Comfort me as I sleep, broken
feathers, broken beaks.
Under my fingernails,
I wrote all my secrets.
If you don’t trust me,
cut off my hands and read
the truths I never told.
Beneath the oak,
I bowed to the lord and
asked to hear your voice.
You were carried
by birds with feathers sewn. I broke my word
and called a name without sound.
You woke to collect the tongue
filled with wooden splinters.
No longer holding a veil of ghosts,
I gave in to you freely.
Take everything painted grey.
I tie knots on the feet
of birds and hang them
from bedroom windows.
I asked the lord to feed me to
the vultures. But they had
enough to eat.
What’s greater than a vulture’s hunger?
Hiding behind the oak in our backyard,
I watch you sing from your open door.
There’s no voice to hear.
I know the words coming through, you’re
praising the birds that keep us awake.
Dragged from the valley,
I stand beside a hollow wave.
There’s nothing more to the space left behind.
No water in veins, my flesh is filled
with sand and salt.
This body is the maker of deserts.
Drown me in an embrace none
would want, holding still
I need to forget the name I was
taught to love.
This burden of sealing
weighs more than salted flesh.