I.
To the dogwood still in bloom,
the dead rhododendron,
the azalea that bleeds
its desire out. In case.
II.
To the birds in jeweled leaves,
drying their feathers, wet
chirps, wet grass, wet ground. To the knot
in my shoulder just at the point
where my mother pinned
my wings, traced with pencil,
snipped free. And those mornings
I bounced chair to chair, angelic,
in a living room shipwrecked
with light.
III.
To the skin
I nestle within, as if it were
a womb and I were pregnant
with myself. To my body’s
empty pockets. To beauty, eyeless,
that doesn’t know its name. To the sky.
And my back, wingless. And winged grass.