there are three things you know

i.
you reach into your incorporeal chest
and cradle the bird behind your ribs.
forming a gentle cage of your hands.

you bring the red-chested red-breast to your lips
and tuck the fearful creature under your tongue.

ii.
blood-crimson feathers are spilling
from between your teeth like
cherry blossoms that carpet the corridors
of your weary mind and
scar-crossed thoughts.

iii.
your fingers are wine-dark with wanting
and an unnamed, silent thing
akin to fear tears tightening paths
through your skin,
hidden by the cold
and half-formed excuses.



the official story is that you
fell.

you didn't, not in the way they thought you meant.



you'll spit out the truth one day,
choking on summer-scented feathers
and small, pink flowers that you'll
crush between thumb and forefinger
in denial of this fear.

h.f.m.