Audio: Read by the author.

My first night without you
my wings fold back in on themselves—

all those birds inside or
released by your hands—now I trace

my fingers along my collarbone

trying to find where they live. I keep
touching my scar—it feels like swallowing

night, like flyers for a lost boy—
what if it’s true our bodies are not our own,

but only become manifest (like this
poem) when activated by another’s touch

what if the thing activated is outlined—
roughly—by the word body . . . This

morning my daughter stood before me
naked said her body was not

her own—she’s been sick for two days—
smiling, she seemed to

like it, the feeling, that

floating above . . . I worry it’s a set-up, a
manifestation of the addict I’ve

passed on through the blood, my talent
for slipping into the bigger thing

a craving for it . . . O

to live without thoughts—no rats in our
shoulders, only birds,

the willingness to let someone
inside. What if

these things we call our bodies are not
singular or contained, what if

they finally become irrelevant . . .
after so much time trying to be grounded,

to land on this earth, so strange
to imagine we might simply pass by ourselves

for a moment, en route to somewhere else . . .
What’s on the other side? A nap?

A parade? It works—matchbox

sparks, lightning bugs, I’m completely inside
that boy who feels like he’s inside me.

And this—
I want to know everything about the parade.

LEAVE A REPLY