--HERE’S TO THE HEARTS THAT YOU DON’T BREAK

The sparrows are desperate to know if I can keep a secret, wondering if I can find a different dozen ways to kill myself, reminding me any dirty blade will do, any lopsided jump off a high place, a hundred soapy pills, or just one fit and bitter enough.  And those sparrows?  Their wings should be broken by now, as is my trust in fate, the golden rod reel I thought I saw from afar only to realize I’m a blind rock, the one the waves lash and lash, beating my dull bones into bland salt and sand.  But next year, after my death and resurrection, I’ll return to you as the smallest of birds, hovering imperceptibly by your bedroom window, unbroken wings thrashing against the glass like rain that can’t stop itself from falling, hot tears sluicing against your golden skin.