When a soul is ready, it sheds its ghost skin, takes off
its clear feathers like a rain.  The doctors examine

and prescribe to my body, but no one says Greive
until the heart's faulty core, hung in curtains, can be rebuilt.

Nothing they give me fills the hole. Still my mind holds
every dream I had for you.  An entire house prepared.

The tiles on the floor are cold.  The hallway
of the maternity wing is fluorescent and cold.  I am afraid

nothing else will happen.  I won't die of this.  
I'll just go on walking in the numb past, missing you

sitting in the chair by the window, knees curled up,
waiting for that one bird I grew inside to release his song.