Call me Blue bird.

Call me Blue bird one more time--
I want to hear your say it
not because I want to be a Blue bird 
anymore but because I want to
hear how you say it-- 
Say I like I could be someone's 
throw blanket-- worn heeled 
socks or the vibrant belly
of another cup of chamomile tea
blooming in mist and fogging glasses
frames-- I want to be that
again someday-- I want to know
that I'm small enough to fit in someone's 
hand-- no I never wanted you to 
call me goddess or hail me saint
of milk blood bleeding honey
for sweet martyrdom-- cut the
bird feeders down so I don't come
around anymore and I'll still
ask if you want to call me Blue bird--
feed the seed to the squirrels and
watch the blue jays kamikazae
for each fleck of sun flower.
I like to think that someday I will
catch you in passing
so that I can ask you what
makes someone a Blue bird
what makes someone a lover
What made you call me 
Blue bird. I don't want to be
a Blue bird anymore, but I 
want to know what I'm supposed to be now.
I can be Cardinal or Morning Dove
or Chickadee or Swallow
or Falcon or Cockatrice 
spit fire on my own wrists--
Oh can I be Poet?
Maybe I'll see you 
seated across the aisle 
on a bus to a city I want
to live in-- my back pack will be full
of too many dresses that I don't want to wear anymore.
I'll hold a black notebook 
in my lap where I write
to the hypnotic rhythm of the bus's hips:
I want I want I want 
I want I want I want
I want to be a Writer 
and you'll carry your shoelaces
in a draw string bag and 
look out the window
And I will say aloud
in the absurd silence
of a moving room full of people:
I want I want I want 
I want to be a Poet
And maybe you'll be reminded of something
about girl bodies
you once wrapped yourself around
or something
about Poets or something
about waiting for a Blue bird
at Port Authority
and carrying Blue bird bags of
dresses. Yes, Blue birds wear dresses
when they visit a city
that has always swallowed them
too fast and burned it's tongue
on their cockatrice feet.
Of all the things I've ever been
called no matter how many poems
I write I still have never
called myself a poet.
I have been a Blue bird.
I have been a goddess-- I damn
well burn my self enough to be a martyr
and cut my hair short enough to be
a girl-body-- breathe fire enough 
to pretend to be a cockatrice
but I don't wear enough dresses
to be a city. I never wore
enough dresses to be your city.
Oh! And don't get me wrong. I
don't want to be a Bird bird.
Oh! Why did you have to make me feel
so much like a poet?
And everyone will have
been wearing head phones on the bus
and no one will have heard me
say that I'm a Poet-- but it
won't matter because it was never
meant for them. It was meant
to be heard between the towering torsos 
of buildings singing 
Writer writer writer
Come home to us
You can be a throw blanket
a worn heeled sock
a cockatrice and we won't
make you wear dresses if you don't
want to
Writer writer writer
you can be POET 
you can be mugs of tea
you can be our patron saint
of missing people who
don't wait for you at bus stations.
I'll wait for myself.
I'll probably write another
poem about you on the way.
I'll leave it on the seat
next to you and I'll imagine that
you read it and think
about Blue birds and think
about poems and think about 
girl-bodies with black notebooks
who write their name 
over and over and over again
spelled different.
on each blank page