I store recordings of birdsong on my phone.
I don’t know which birds, or how to learn,
or if it’s important to know. I need to earn
prizes for things, always have. My mother
called me an apple polisher & she was right.
Who gives someone a dirty apple? I do
everything the right way, & when I can’t
I cry. On my phone you can listen to birds
from 2016, they may not even be alive
anymore. Did they say all they needed
to say? Would they be proud of me,
replaying their chittering with a studious
expression? My mother was not proud
that I wanted the world to love me, that I
craved little head-pats from strangers
& made homework for myself, then
completed it. Cemeteries are great places
to overhear birds. Often I read wives’ names
from the headstones, in case no one else
has spoken them aloud in a while. I polish
the marble lambs on baby graves with my
sleeves. See how good I can be? See
what doesn’t bother me? It is time I knew
these birds: where do they sleep, do they learn
faces, do they play favorites? Which ones
drill holes, which ones like apples, which ones
are red? Word by word I’ll learn their language,
the kind things they might have said.