Bird Call

We lay there, nodding, playing the old game.

Thrush, I said, eyes opened against sleep.

Hummingbird, hers.

Mother named us after birds—Dove, Starling, Sparrow, Wren—to keep

We were young;

we chased each other under

her skirt. And when we grew,

we grew together.

We sat in the branches (kneecaps touching)

and tried to name as many birds

as barbules on a fallen feather’s vane.

Letters touching.

Dodo sewn to hummingbird.

Ostrich, though born half-osprey. Then my plummeting

Hawk, chasing her

Kiwi. There were

so many in the way—each leaf a

wayward face. Every name pricked me

evergreen.

I thought, “i i i i i,”

I saw

the slim needle of a beak opening to receive a worm,

a crumb.

No

one called

Lost, I had no answer. Nest

unsafed, left

elopement the only way.

Ibis, she tossed me, re-knotting name

to name. We lay there.

The old game.