self portrait as dead nestling

we were almost there. "almost" is a word 
for mountains though & all i have 
is the ghost of a spoon. my coin-glossy hunger.
the wind used to give me each of my feathers.
to me, trust came naturally. i trusted
the arms of the oak tree & mother with her
wedding ring flights. to see another beak is 
to watch the self rip open. sometimes i felt
like i was just another tongue. downy static.
ladeled rain. lollipop sun. i blame myself. i say, 
"i asked the wind for too much." or, maybe, i am 
the earth's thumb print. not a martyr. just a haunting.