Monday, May 25, 2020

THE BIRDS ARE CRYING


The birds are crying “Whoooo, whoooo, whooo,”
in the morning sunlight that sweeps the land at 5am,
a dapple of sun on the grass.

I am not shattered. I am whole. Like a dandelion
in the breeze, I rise and find myself enjoying
life more and more, by myself or with someone.
I know there are shadows in the morning, less
in the evening during summertime, and I play in
the kiddie pool with my four-year-old son,

I still tell him his daddy is off at war, and that he is
sick and dying, even though he cheated on me with
my third cousin and is now living with her in Las
Vegas, Nevada, near the Alien Highway.

I don’t know if there is such a thing as aliens,
or how they move through space, without a spaceship,
or with, and if they speak a language that is different
from our own, or maybe they just like writing like

me, I form a little “o” of words, my head nodding
in rhythm to the music, tonight I sleep and dream
of a man who is worthy of my love, worthy more
of my son, worthy of how we live.
It’s not what you say but how you say it,
and dive to the bottom of the ocean and come back up again,
and again, and again.


No comments: