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.