bird flew

on the day you turned into a bird
i was in the city. the buildings were vacant
& all the hotels were full of birds too.
i searched, hoping one was you.
knocked on doors. opened windows.
my lover begged me to stop. i believe may
that you could find me somehow in 
a different state even though i looked
nothing like you remembered. 
i always carry bird seed in my purse
in case i need to ask a flock if they 
have seen you. they never want to speak
to me. the thing about cycles is that
they cannot talk. they cannot say,
"now you are a ghost" & "now you are
a grandmother." when i try to explain 
my family & the removals & the escapes 
& the gaps, i always falter. it is like
skipping a stone across the sky. you drank
decaf coffee from the christmas mug.
you said, "when i am a bird, do not
look for me." your sister, said,
"i'll never be a bird." i always intended
to betray you. to look for the dead is 
a sacred walk. i think of the plague doctors 
& their masks like crow faces in the night.
making birds with their gloved hands. 
they say if you talk to the birds too much
you will become one. i select feathers.
the blue jay & the swift & the barn swallow. 
often i will lay down in the peach-juice morning.
wingspan wide. pretend the ground
is the water or the clouds. beat my wings.
i have not seen you in years & i see you
every day. your lungs, my pairs of shoes.
your call like the door hinge doves
& the chickadees at daybreak.