Unwell Hearts, Absent Heads

We are the

c a n a r i e s

of the psych ward,

curled up

on futons

(we sewed together)

fingertips touching,

knife of the hand

resting on the

c o n c r e t e

because we

like

to suffer

together.

the futons

(oh god)

they burned.

we didn't.

.

you didn't tolerate

the tile

well.

you cried.

all night long.

until my arms

a c h e d

from cradling

the soft pieces

of you.

.

it was a downward

spiral

in the middle of

summer.

the tile was

f r e e z i n g

and

i n h o s p i t a b l e

to the kind of

romantic dreams

we hid underneath

lidded solstice eyes,

bronzer over applied

by the sun

to our skin.

.

maybe we could hear

the rumbling

of the world

through

the tile and that's

why we laid there,

tangled up in

problems

and social

perceptions

and psych ward

r h y t h m s ,

your head on my chest

and my chest

p r e s s e d

against yours.

.

you were never a

c a n a r y

but a lonely

g o l d f i n c h .

sitting on the branch,

a f r a i d

of what could come

because you

could

sense

a storm

like a sneeze.

.

do you remember

those summers,

cheeks pressed

to the tile,

dry air over ankles,

calves, and hips,

heating us like cats,

everything glowing

c o p p e r

from the fires

ravaging the plains.

.

or do you remember

the summer as

m o t i o n l e s s ?

suffocating heat

wrapping fingers

around

your neck

when

the job

was taken.

.

do you think

you would

have loved me

if i never had

any wings at all?

if my madness

wasn't pretty

like yours was?

if i didn't bleed

when i was hurt?

if i laughed

instead

of whispered?

.

i would have

r i p p e d

out every one of my

f e a t h e r s

to have another five

s e c o n d s

as your psych ward

c a n a r y

on the cool tile,

c u r l e d

around my little

g o l d f i n c h .

.

but they sewed a

m a t t r e s s

back together

(with a machine),

good as new,

slid it beneath your

h i p b o n e s

at midnight,

swapping me

for something

more forgiving.

.

you would've cried

in the morning,

a goldfinch's song

catching an empty

n e s t .

you should have been

the bird that

e s c a p e d.