from “Fur Birds”
I’ve forgotten all my songs. The garden
rows like swamped in ruins. Dust
in gates, mesh wire swinging. We’d
cling to ours if we’d only known.
She thought this to herself before bed

every night for a week.

* * *

dead things

did you become
so lonely?

one thing could
fit inside
the other: mouse, bird-
wing. glossy black
tail to feather

because I am
afraid of breaking

wick quick
to flame

there is water

a body in the hand
(seed spread
through secret

every time
someone is kind
to me I feel
like breaking

* * *

It was about forgetting and hurt feelings & beginnings. We worked in rows, our arms swinging back and forth, the needle hemming slow and long, the stitch singing. When I closed my eyes she sings a song. She is my twin scissor. We swing and twitch the tune, the lungs brimming. At first it felt like all I ever wanted was a hug, and a lung. But now the burning coils of plastic unspool the glossed rots of synthetic hair and combs, watering cans, and crimson boots. All these others out there—out here— hand to hand we almost touch. No matter how we look at it—we are either all together or else we are all alone.