And, yes, it's true, he was the one
to leave. I tell the story now like the door-
knob was cold beneath my hand,

not that I had no hands to open it
if he hadn't done so first. I could have
stayed there: love, I thought,

was standing so still
that a bird might perch on my shoulder
to nest in my mouth. I mistook its wings

for my own. The blood from its beak
kissing my tongue, I called it song,
and I swallowed, and even when

nothing grew from rocks I still
called them seeds. I blamed my-
self, and I thought that was love, too.

Anything can be anything
when you want it to be
something. We're all everyone

we've ever been before
as we wait in line to be someone else
again. Just because I'm not

sorry anymore doesn't mean
I never apologized. Or maybe it does?
Maybe I just didn't want

to spoil the ending, the story
where it was never my fault at all?
What's that rustling sound, anyway?

Feathers?