because this jarred you loose from the place where i carry you.


i dream you awake again, stroke your glossy black, now pink, now blue, now black again. feathers or curls, i can’t quite recall, so the dream gifts you both.

the flush rose as your eyes welled up (one blackest brown, the other plummed to coal by a fist), you said “i am no one’s now.” and i said “you are mine. you are my friend.

it’s a surprise to make it here (26), we said we would not see 25. did you even live out another year from that burning day, before your hummingbird heart (still broken) gave up and out? exhausted by so much smoke and fluttering (unwanted) from house to house.

i flew the coup (a fool), thought I could trade up on my soul, pantomime salvation in exchange for safety, practicing for later when i would trade up on my body, to no avail. all that pretending, and i still couldn’t make myself up to future housewife (anonymous)–my feathers kept shoving past the broom.

you were the first of the fey ones to my young acquaintance, wings hidden under a busted out denim jacket. i hollowed a locket-shaped nest for you beneath my breastbone, the innards made downy with years, love. i keep you there with my projections, run reels of our long and winding walks, conversations. they were too brief.

but at least there’s that home, at last, for you.



One Response to “”

  1. […] The year that I leave my mother’s house my closest friend dies in my absence, and I start dreaming fervently in Spanish. My abuela, long-dead, takes walks […]

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