Chicks Will Break Your Heart

When I was 

eight years old, 

my father 

brought home 

an eyas 

with a broken wing. 

This is not a metaphor. 

It is not to say:

I have held in my hands,

trembling,

something that was 

born for the sky;

I have fed 

a wild thing 

all of my love, 

knowing that it 

would leave me 

bleeding and 

alone. 

What I mean is:

when I was 

eight years old, 

my father introduced 

the art of heartbreak 

to me. 

He taught me 

how to love a thing 

and get 

nothing 

in return. 

In You Too

In you, 

I find 

all the best 

of me, 

but

all worst 

parts of me 

are in you, 

too. 

My Mother’s Obituary

When I write 

my mother’s obituary, 

I will start at the 

beginning:

Once upon a time, 

there was a beautiful 

apple tree, 

and on it, 

two golden apples, 

sharing seeds. 

From the ground, 

it was impossible
to tell where
one apple ended, 

and the other began. 

I will tell them:

Once there lived 
a bird 

who fell in love 

with a fish, 

and she would spend 

every day 

on the sand 

by the water’s edge, 

waiting to glimpse 

his glimmering scales 

in the sunlight. 

I will say:

By the time you 

read this, 

she will be gone. 

But she lived 

her whole life 

as a love letter 

to him. 

I hope 

you will read it 

and understand.

Love (Means Never Saying Goodbye)

This is love:

rejoicing in 

your absence;

knowing, 

as much as it hurts, 

you are better now,

without me.

Knowing, 

as long as I live, 

my heart 

will keep you 

close. 

Heaven Sees Red

Colors died with you-
Everything is dull and gray.
Red has turned to black.

In Memoriam

When I was young, 

the sunrises I loved best 

were the ones painted 

behind your trees. 

I would wake, 

already energized, 

hoping to beat the sun 

out of bed. 

Your dogs would follow, 

sometimes as many as four, 

furry guards and 

confidantes. 

When we returned, 

breathless from racing 

the birds, 

you would fry pancakes 

and flip eggs, 

pour grape juice 

from the fruit 

of your vines, 

insist that I eat more, 

just a little more, 

as your cats 

anointed my ankles 

with silky fur 

and silent prayers. 

We would lie in your bed, 

watching Shirley Temple 

or old Dick Van Dyke episodes, 

or reading the books 

that would become 

my dearest escapes. 

You would give me gifts- 

a butterfly brooch 

with zirconia wings, 

a book, 

a calendar, 

some mittens, 

a knife. 

But they were never 

as beautiful 

as your hills, 

bathed in sunlight, 

as your sky, 

clear 

and blue 

as your love.