I said goodbye to my bluebird last night, felt the thin crest of her skull beneath feathers on my lips, her warmth lingering like your breath fogging the pane of my shoulder in February, life turning milky against the cold air. I emptied my pockets on the splintered wooden counter, the sleeves of my sweater catching on sharp wood bits like broken fingernails, thin strands of white falling behind me when I leave, spider’s webs that forgot how to stick.
Yesterday at work there was a song caught in my throat all day. I want to call it mine but I think it’s been yours this whole time. I’d give it back if I could persuade it to move, tried coating my windpipe with honey and lavender, whispered “spring” over and over and opened my mouth to swallow the sun–
I want to say this life is still happening. I want to speak warm and open my hands to give you green gage plums. You ask me why I call them green while their orange cheeks roll against my palms, one split from the heat, two beads of juice like sweat falling to my wrist. My wrist is a window in an April rain, the outside mosaic-ed, everything within darkened but otherwise unchanged besides the sound which is not a sound and I have to crouch on the floor and point my ears toward each wall trying to find an origin or at least a name for this. When the rain clears the sky is choking on bluebirds, wings and throats opened, one feather gliding alone toward my feet. A warm breath lingers on my lips and the song in my throat pauses. I wonder if I should say goodbye.