You, Written In Second-Person

You have a lot of explaining to do,

the ripped birds in my mailbox, the

pure freedom and dead eyes.

Each gift is stranger than the next:

a universe of crows braided

into my hair.  A copy of Ulysses,

and each time the word "love"

appeared, you cut it out.

The oddest thing you ever

gave me was a piece of rubble

from a Russian civilization found during

your trip last year.  You handed me

the old stone and looked

me in the face, wild-eyed as

an animal.  You said that

whatever love gives, it will

also take away, you know this

is true.  A tree banged at the window

during a storm and it sounded

like a heartbeat.  You said my eyes

looked prewar.  Today I took

the dead birds you sent me,

stood in my backyard and threw

them up fiercely.  If only we

could put ourselves into the

sky and make it stick, if only

the leaves had grabbed us

with claws and kept us there.

I could have written you letters,

but didn't.  My muscles loosen,

I fall at the same time the birds

fall and we land together.                                                                printable