Hope is a bird that dies outside
my window every morning.
I rarely have the energy to give it
a proper burial, but when I do,
I dig a hole deep enough for its
static dreams. The soil is always
teeming with ants and I never
have the stomach to finish the
job, so I leave behind craters
and unmarked tombs.
If I could stay within my own
boundaries, I would. I'd wander
the walls and silently sing to the
aimless ducks in the ditch. I'd
make nests for all of the dead
organisms rotting in my womb.
Under a harvest moon, you tend
to my garden, consoling dreams
that only know death. You retire
near dawn and collapse into my
arms, sore muscles and new scars,
and I forgive myself for letting you
be the strong one.
You try, even when the world is
burning before us, even when
birds fall from the fires of the sky
and beg to put out of their misery;
you at least try.