by Danielle Kessinger
Early morning walk and I hear a sound like rain
a flock of Ibis under a tree shedding flowers,
the impending storm the song of curved beaks
brushing the discarded blooms.
Last night you asked me if I worried
about the age of my eggs like they are something I can check the
expiration date on, reach inside and lay them out,
see the sell-by date is well past,
that it’s time to crack them open
before they become rot, before they become waste.
You asked me if I had accepted
I would never have a family, the sympathetic mask
wrapped tight against the blade of your cheeks.
I didn’t answer, had seen a squirrel on the fence
a red flower held to its mouth
teeth tearing at the base.
I take your children over to the vine
pick them each a blossom explaining the
the green not the petal is the edible part, a taste like honey,
while you argue with your husband over some small offense.
Days later, I am still thinking of your questions,
about words—loss and alone and acceptance,
but I can’t stay with it,
keep picturing birds amongst petals
keep hearing the rain of beaks in the grass.