bird bones whisper belligerently
under midnight sun—
when will i visit you
under pockmarked stone?
pale gold crescents of nails flash/
your curved fingers
skate over soft sutured skull;
i gurgle to you at crossroads—
tomorrow when i have hardened,
and your body has renewed.
we hop, waddle through a whisper of rain
blue and moisture stained
you catch dragonfly wings between
your teeth; i
find things less filmy:
ground beetles and walnuts,
shells for the whites of my eyes;
i flash them at you, and we say—
you will pluck them out, fill
the sockets with prayer seeds, once
my soft fontanelle tempers and
your feathers molt. our
wounds in the brume, packed
with lichen will—
close, eventually:
coffin teeth in babies’ heads;
yellow eyes;
stones made civil—
what follows us day after?

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Anna O'Connell during our annual Kickstarter.]