the bird inside me
migrated
I miss its song—
this morning was so quiet
watching frost melt
on the fallen leaves
*
did I, too, forget
how to sing?
did I also
fly away
from myself?
*
my hands
do not need to be asked—
they move unbidden
to touch the places
on my body
where the pain
unfolds
*
and here
and here
and here—
touch me here
and here
and here
*
what use is a tongue?
what use is song?
what use these hands?
what use silence?
*
who is the one
who thinks of the world
in terms of usefulness?
*
it was a long time
before I heard
the leaves had a song
of their own
but only
when
I moved
*
the nest
is still here
inside—when
you’re not looking
I fold up my
silence, my
hands, my
wants
and hide
*
is it
so wrong
sometimes
I pretend
I am
gone