All of That Is Gathered for the Birds 

Somewhere there is a field of Sandhill Cranes and
I am standing there—

I could be alive or awake or some version of that.
I am a small fish, silver,

sliding down the throat of each bird. Somewhere each crane walks the ridges
of my fingertips and in this scenario I am uneasy,
I am the sinking earth—

my belly somehow the sky pulsing out. In this space I want to name my breasts
something beautiful, but all of that is gathered for the birds. The cranes assemble
around me bringing ghosts; dead men singing in fibrillation.
These birds know

the weeping place—we travel through sky to cry here. I can cry here, right?
And when I flood this field enough I surely will swim or thrash or flail
—I see it now—

I kill one of my cranes by panic-grabbing her, so much pressure to keep me lifted
and
I am sorrow-sorry for this.

I didn’t mean it. It truly is a minor thing, a grief thing, and oh my god,
when I surface every single feather is wet and there is so much missing.