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.
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