vacant bird house

i don't know how to be a ghost anymore.
your mouth spills sand into the living room
& i come with a box of tissues.
please, tell me when i get to go home.
the birds are carrying suitecases out
of a hole in the wall. anything
can be a bird house with enough doors.
a shoe box. a crawl space. my skull.
feathers in my mouth. you are always saying
you make your model cities for me.
i am so tired of pronouns & how they beg me
to enter sentences  against my will.
i want to be a ball of clay. i want to be
a bird feeder. seed in my eyes. 
the blue jays kill squirrels & steal 
their acorns. the birds make sure to say,
"that's not us." blame is a lovely
little halo. well maybe more like 
a hula hoop. what do you want to do 
with it? i want to point fingers 
at every little swallow i see. it's all your fault
that i am sad & angry & never feel rest.
the swallows laugh. they know they
are going to fill their next house 
with marble busts. i used to think
i wanted a yard & now it winks at me
& says, "i am full of dead birds."
of course, the bird were going to die
just like we all are going to die. i just wasn't
expecting to have to build tiny coffins for them.
lower each hollow body into the dirt
like a dictionary page. goodbye i say
& the birds empty their loved one's house
of its plastic shoes & compact mirrors. 

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