April 6 poem

Lessons

I can't forget
the way your hands press dough,
as if they know
what it wants to be,
your fingernails dusty with flour,
your palms leaving prints
that look like muscle and bone
on the countertop.

You told me once
that time is like a heartbeat,
different for everyone.
You said mine murmurs
and placed your hand
where my breasts would bloom
someday and asked
if I knew what it was saying
anyway.
I stared at the sliver of your teeth
like the moon between your lips,
your face the daytime sky,
silent.

You feed stale bread crusts
to the blackbirds. They come
like angry clouds,
bringing their own wind.
I hide
behind the kitchen window pane.
You laugh,
your face framed in feathers,
your voice a broken song,
your arms outstretched
like wings.

Birds are hollow
with bones like bone china.
They crack when they hit glass.
I found a dead robin
on the porch once,
carried it to you wrapped up
in the corner of my dress.
You buried her
with your bare hands.