bat box

we mistake them for night birds
but then we see veins in their wings 
through the moon's swollen light. 
a reminder that a silhouette is not a mirror. 
they swoop back & forth, eating other wings.
flight, no matter how integral, is always 
a process of falling. when i was small 
& we had just moved into the old house
i used to see bats all the time. once, sitting
in the living room, a sick one found her way
to my feet. i crouched down. did not 
touch her. instead, i talked softly.
i told her, "my father said he is going to build
a box bat for you." my father never did. 
they screamed when they saw me & the creature.
i do not think she survived. in her honor, i decided 
to become a bat. cut wings from trash bags.
tried to sleep upside down. none of it worked.
i made terrible unconvincing silhouettes.
above our house these days there are 
still bats who eat the sky. when i am really manic
& i need an escape hatch, i do join them
to varying degrees of success. i ask my father
in the middle of the night, when he is 
a ghost & so am i, "why did you never build
the bat box?" he says, "because i would lose you
to them." i do not think he is overprotective.
or, maybe he is but maybe he was right to be.
it is such a relief to discover your father is just as
frightfully human as you. a man who once lived
with the bats. once slept with his toes curled 
around a branch. for most of my life, if i could join
a new colony of creatures, i would do it.
practicing the taste of beetles. their crunch
in my mouth like the click of a keyboard. 
i lift my arms up to the bathroom's bold light.
see the veins beneath. most of the time
when i call my father he does not answer.
i know where he is. he is in a bat box, singing.