wind chime maker
at first i used only bones.
tied them to the end of each finger.
on the porch i waited for a breeze
to talk to me. there are theories of air.
gods gathered whispering
or the wing beats of extinct birds.
ghost foot steps. a motion
of a secret coming undone.
i tend to believe a gust of wind
is all of these combined.
once, in the night i woke
to find an angel's feather
on my nightstand. the beast hovered above me
& shone his myriads of eyes.
he said, "i want to talk to someone"
then blew all the papers form my desk.
now, i pluck ancient words
from gales. hang spoons & pans.
destroy what it means to "chime"
& make it cacophonous. a clatter meaning
"once i was a girl who fell from a cliff"
or "my hands shake whenever i see you."
i used to think i wanted to learn
from the wind. now, i am more interested
in conversations as comrads.
i told a grey storm last year
"i'm not supposed to be so depressed"
& the storm responded by playing
the wooden chimes. a downpouring
of hooves. she meant, "we all feel
like becoming bed sheets somedays."
i don't know if that is true.
i distrust all statements that begin
"we all." we don't all. the wind
is interested in closure. on this also
we disagree. shutting again the front foor
which i wish to keep as wide open
as possible. when the angel comes again
i want to be standing & ready.
i want to ask, "is there a process
for playing the wind?" then
"if so, one day, will you have me."