They think my nerves are cold steel; they call me unnn-real, like I'm a big deal; they think I'm all fight, that I've gained deeper in- sight. Like I'm alright. Like I don't cry. And all I did was not die.
Next time I wake from sleep for keeps – from deepest, darkest slumber – I may come back a little bird to visit in the summer; my quetzal pomp, green feathered grace, singing through my hunger – when I am gone, I may come back your pretty bird, a wonder.