By CL Bledsoe
Let them settle in me, a phone line
drooping between tree corpses,
chatter somewhere above my ears
that smells of spices I can’t name.
I don’t mind choking on feathers
if it makes something in me rise,
a lightness in the stomach, a dark
calm in the throat. I’m not
the kind of person who throws rocks
at placid waters, anymore. I like to watch
it as it flies with the seasons. Only
I can hollow these clunky bones,
climb up somewhere worth jumping
from. And when I jump, it’s on me
to forget to fall. I’d rather cheer
on the starlings than envy the crows.
It’s a choice to start singing: hey you,
passing in the wind, come rest
beside me for a little while.