to be the winged bird that falls like rain

“what is grief, if not love persevering?”— Vision


in a village, a woman on a boat tosses her net

into a lake & hopes to fish her drowned kids from

its yawning mouth. the dark garment in the sky is

without sparkles, a halved moon hovers, & nothing

but owls eat the silence. in Bini, she says take back

this grief, & return the music of my womb. yet the sea

in her heart doesn’t forsake her body. she swears on her

breasts to reclaim her treasures gulped by the threnody

of water. what good is a home crushed by gloom,

when there are no songs to keep the light alive?

when all the air carries are the running footsteps

& laughter of one’s loss stuck in its memory?

day after day, she saddles herself to the middle

of the lake & throws in her hands in the form of a net.

someone somewhere stares at a gravestone, saltwater

from their eyes marking their face, & wonders: why

does everything that begins with love ends with grief?

why is the body a metaphor for a glass—always

filled with something? for weeks, the sun has deserted

the village’s morning sky. perhaps she, too, is held down

by some kind of heaviness, unable to take flight. Isn’t

that what awaits us all? fated to be the winged bird that 

falls like rain? in the eyes of the villagers, the woman

is attempting to pull a song that has vanished into the dark

back into her mouth. & who does that, if not someone

who dreams of awakening to a sky full of songbirds?

What are you looking for?