Polishing

Polishing by Erica Reid after Laura Read 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. Poetry Home Art by Marina Leigh