Seven Disappointments (2)

          We learn early we're just dots

          seen from a great height.

—Amy Gerstler

You are human again, but you remember

both lives. First, a boy's. Swimming

in the green-black lake, sleeping in a loft

with your brothers, having a mother

and father who each time one of you broke

into the world hoped you would be

something else. Seven disappointments,

one for each day of the week. A life you had

but did not want. Then, a bird's. Preening

your blue-black wings, sleeping in a nest

made of spun glass, alighting on your sister,

her arms outstretched like a saint, although

she did not know you then. From the air

everyone you loved was scattered confetti.

The speck of one, the speck of another.

It was a dollhouse view: tiny, varnished

loaves of bread, a miniature candelabra,

book pages the size of postage stamps.

It felt as impossible as your name

on a grain of rice: a life you wanted

but could not keep. Once you watched

the landscape roll beneath you, a movie

of a tree played on the river, its reflection

flickering as if projected. You are human

again, but you will not forget. From the air,

the lit windows of your house looked like

a fallen constellation. There were so many

with no silhouettes to fill them.