a dead bird
wears feathers inside its life
while every man has two fathers
and every woman,
two mothers
only one is commonly noticed
I hold both while touching
neither-
like the sky and a falling
wing,
each blessing comes wrapped
in a curse
invert that pairing
and the answer falls the same,
the loudest bones
scream beneath hushed skin,
so quiet,
so close to another side of silence,
empty enough
to swallow the perfect noise,
those beautiful lies we sing ourselves
to grab another day
everyone is in denial
about something
all growth comes deliberately,
an active expression of will,
in letting our secret life
sound through
we find ourselves heard
only when we listen
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