again with the crows
in the tree outside my apartment
on the line above the bus stop
circling over the building
where I work. they don’t speak
to me but I know they’re
keeping an eye out.
when I was a child
my father was an idea and not
personal, not like my mother
who wrapped me in blankets and guilt.
he was there, always,
if I talked, he talked back
but I was awkward
and he was awkward.
silence seemed the solution.
at the county fair, he came with me
on the ferris wheel, mom and tiny sister
left below. wind blew around me,
caught my hair, my imagination, my wings,
sent me flying with a hundred images
and nothing to say,
just circling around his silence.
I call for the holiday and when
I get silent, my mother hands him
the phone. we sit like that, breathing
at each other, still as strangers.
finally my mother thinks of
something else I should have done,
takes it back, and I realize
I prefer honest silence.
the morning when there are no crows
is too still.