wing harvest

the ripening happens all at once.
"it is time" i say into the darkness
of a television night.
we were asleep in a pitless peach.
nectar still on my shoulders.
i was once told i would never 
be a harvester because i am too velvet.
i laughed & bought a knife
from a crossroads man. 
i sharpened it on my own teeth.
the birds shed their flight 
as they pass on to their next lives as fish.
you have to be there at the split second
their soul turns inside out.
or else you will end up with just
handfuls of beaks & feathers.
the tongue field laps at the night's cream.
when i was human, i sometimes
made promises i couldn't keep
like "i will save you some" or 
"i will come back" or "i'll call you."
instead, i took those words & knit cozies 
for my bones so that no one 
will be able to turn them into video games.
the wings are fresh. the wings
are brown & yellow & blue.
they are not for eating. they are
for keeping. for following. for worshipping.
i fill a whole backpack. thrum all the way home.
hang them out in the living room
to dry. it doesn't take long
for them to settle. i usually hear the birds
asking questions about the afterlife.
i tell them, "keep heading towards jupiter."
my father harvested birds too.
he told me, "the trick to staying alive
is to fill your ears with cattails."
i have never listened to him. i love
to hear the dead talk. how else
would i know who i am 
& what i am gathering?