feather tree

when we found the dead birds
we planted them like peach pits.
i was born into the art
of making nothing
from nothing. the skunk cabbage 
harvested by the river. wild onion
like little translucent hearts
chopped & tossed in the hot oil. 
everything dissolved in my mouth.
once, we caught a squirrel 
& let her go. we all have meat.
even the trees. the willows &
the beech with. where the dead birds
were buried the feather trees grew.
first like fists & then like choke cherries.
the shrapnel of an old scream.
at night they called out to each other
from the knots in the bark. 
feathers blowing in the wind.
onto the porch & the driveway.
i liked to collect them to make myself
new eyelids after mine had run away.
we were taught
never to look away. sometimes this
turned my irises into tap shoes.
the feathers were all shapes & sizes.
a dove. a blue bird. a crow.
no birds in sight, just their wings
haunting the old sky. 
tapestry on the bedroom wall
of the tiny god who also does not know
where we are. sometimes butter could cure
the hollowing. the way hunger
expands inside you to fill the lack.
i have not yet collected enough feathers
to make a bird but when i'm done
i'll tie a letter to his leg
& send it off to whoever wants 
to listen. the letter will begin,
"will you tell me what you've swallowed
so that i don't feel so gone?"