hawk

there's a hawk's
nest in the attic &
our pupils dilated
into planets
in the stare
of each other's flashlights--
where did the winter
carry your bridges?
the melted snow creeks
are full of unborn frogs
waiting for spring
to warm them-- there
we are-- in clusters
of eggs-- our tiny 
embryo bodies making
orbits
inside our shells--
what kind of moons
did i walk on before
i was born?
was it a sort of honeymoon 
for myself--
did we dip our feet 
in Mediterranean ocean?
naked & sun-burned--
a red cinnamon candy
dissolving in the inevitability 
of coming alive--
i imagine i was
disappointed when i
learned it was
my time to stop exploring--
river ripetide
pulling me from
a ghost tree--
i ached with 
wanting for myself:
nomadic & unborn--
the currents were too
fast & there i was--
there i was stinging 
in window light--
sometimes my feet 
remember that wandering--
i felt it in the woods
by the creek--
the one with the limestone
kilns we used as temples
& the abandoned house 
where hawks roosted--
shrieking at our
pink skin as we put
out the fires of our
shoe laces-- 
sharpie-marker tattooed
the hips of the trees 
to mark our trails--
learned the language 
of dusk & all of it's
ambling color--
who could know where
purple is going
if left unchecked?
i think back then i
was maybe a light
shade of maroon--
back when i had no body
to worry about breaking
when i 
climbed grandfather tree 
limbs & eat handfuls
of wild berries or
maybe they were 
planets--
planets taste sweet--
not like gumballs but
like pop rocks--
like myself, i don't
know where this poem
is going-- it stepped
off the gravel trail
& found itself in
the girl memories
of autumn & broken
twigs-- in the deep girl
ankles scratched by
briers--
let's give the hawk
a name so that 
her babies will
laugh when they
learn there is something
she goes by other
than just "mother"--
i don't know
if there are hawks in
the creek but there is
one in my hawk & she is 
pacing-- flashlight
in her mouth--
scratching at the walls
of my skulls--
each talon etching 
echo-- 
i tell her she can
stay when
i really mean 
that it's time for
her to find a new 
body to build a nest
in-- i walk out
in the wilting snow
& open my mouth 
but she doesn't leave.