on going 

when your plane takes off
i will turn it into a bird
& catch it with my bare hands
from the sky. 

the feeling of feather
on skin & you will sleep 
nestled inside the bird. 
what kind of bird

should i keep you in?
i have a love of barn owls
but they would be hard 
to hold onto. blue jays are bright

but there is not much leg room
inside a blue jay. i want you
to be comfortable. 
i want you to fly laying

on your back. eyes closed.
shavasana. the floor of the bird
rustling. a bird song
playing through your head.

do you remember when i told you
i dream of a huge hydrangea bush
to keep us all? i remember 
when you said you were

made of firewood & when you drove
with your left foot dangling 
out the window & when your jeepy
turned into a toad.

it does not have to be
a bird forever. i promise i will
let the plane return. let loud engine
replace a throat. 

did i get a chance to tell you
about how my brother & i 
used to make paper airplanes
& fly them across the living room all day.

i want to fold you carefully
to feel each edge again. i am 
standing on the roof of our apartment now
& i am in a sea of pigeons

none of which are you. i am feeding them
stories & poems & none of them
are you. i am tossing your plane
back where it belongs & 

it is becoming, finally,
a great machine designed for 
departure. i am a small machine
on the ground grasping at birds.