Polishing

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.