"THE BIRDS ARE CALLING" and "THE BIRDS ARE CALLING"

THE BIRDS ARE CALLING

The crows are gone from the doorstep

of the house across the way.

I want omens in everything:

the mourning doves perched side-by-side

after a fresh coat of stain is applied to the rotting deck;

the way nausea begs me to rest before good news;

the collapse of love before the end of the world;

my evil eye bracelet snaps in my sleep;

I forget how to get home.

I leave a trail of voices in my wake.

THE BIRDS ARE CALLING

I am mistaking the doves for owls

again. I am conditioned to whimsy, projections

of cartoons with glasses and a smart hat.

I think I am the only girl in the world

who makes this mistake, but then Frankie does too.

Sometimes my room feels like a mistake or a

simulation. There are electric green waves running

up and down my floor whenever I am just so, so sad.

I refuse to let sunlight in

just in case it reminds me that I am real.

At night I worship the artificial glow

of all of the things I've been told might kill me.

I read a story where boys wish on a dandelion

that makes me pray for morning.