I am my own worst departure.

my father
a rock
trapped
in the worried dream
of his contortionist
mother.

I am gentle with the baby
though it screams
his face is getting away.

whose face
I want to know
before passing my want
onto a morse code
present in most
blackbirds.

speaking of blackbirds

I hear one has been tapped
to become
the dying parrot
of a priest
who’s fashioned
from a still
moving
train car

this church
that must’ve been
torture.