The Weight of Birds

Grief migrates through my body like a flock of weighted birds set to land on the moon. Feathered brows cringe and forrow parantheses which contain pain my head will house while my heart expands and renegotiates space. Meanwhile, the darkest of nights are still spotted with stars. Our eyes crane over media lights. We breathe in pockmarked air, hardly vibrating Our collective chests unable to exhale. So, we siphon shock toward a chasm cut deeper than the curve of a mother’s hip, then wait for the shift. This world, my body, has been seeking an axis from which to pivot and point, a soft wind, awash with answers stillness. There are no answers. The wild geese, high in the clean blue air, will not be heading home again.* The call, however harsh and exciting, now silently tethered to soothing coos. A cosmos of chilling questions, now nesting in one town's commitment to belonging. *Reference to Wild Geese by Mary Oliver. poems go here)