The Birds Tonight
are asleep in the bushes,
happy to share their dusk.
You open your body to show them where you are bleeding,
but they don’t have a song for that.
In this heat
you can finger the seconds before dark.
Perhaps you are asleep again,
in the back room of the church
where if you knock a body will always appear
on the other side of the door. In this room,
the women have fallen asleep on their knees
with their hands clasped together.
You nestle yourself between the bodies of two mothers
with their heads in their hands and their mouths half open
dreaming gravity will drip their words out.
the birds are one voice,
a dozen dozing instruments.
In their sleep, the women are animals.
They use their whole bodies for song.