Bird 1920 1440 Crystal Ignatowski

There is no single word for the feelings molting
inside me these last five months, sharp as quills.

I dream of migrating to a wider space. I think of
all the men I’ve loved, who came inside me

and shouted a version of my name, how none of them
mattered. Like how all the bird feeders in my yard hold

different seed, but every bird that lands is simply bird.
I think about the man in my writing group with long hair

and tennis shoes, how I dream of him unzipping me
and letting all my insides out. He won’t matter either.

Some mornings, I wake in that silent time and listen
to my husband breathe. He is full of trazodone to keep him

down, keep him breathing like a deer in the wild, still
wilding. We said until death do us part, but we meant

until it parted us. All the birds fly away in a fluttering
mess when I startle. They mimic what I can’t put into words.

Header photograph © Mane Hovhannisyan.

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