We Avert Our Eyes

I wrote a poem that I've since forgotten —

about golden nightingales,

about tiny dogs in tiny caskets.

One day, when I find the words again,

I'll sing to you like my mouth's

all piano keys and the moon's

the last light in the hallway.

I can never quite see what's

in your hands but your

eyes look at me the way a bird

looks to the trees, hungry for a

nest of her own. I'm pleading

with you ---- ----- -- ------.

I'm just a home with smaller bones.

Photo credit @laurarbenson on IG.