The poem you are holding
Is the true story of what never happened.
My bird, a finch, came back today
Though where she went
I’ll never know.
She had once
A broken leg
Which has healed brokenly—
Also the true story
Of what never happened—
I’m not a truth teller.
This morning
Wind crosses the lake
Like a speech
On self control.
Stay awake, it says.
My bird, a finch, came back.
She says we don’t heal.
She says when not flying
A crooked walk is acceptable.
She says many things
In the way of birds in poems.
Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University
