Birdsong

My mom would sing to me as a child, that tune

floating well into The Now, where I have the gift

to sing with her when we share space. My childhood is

embroidered with her voice, threading through

kitchens, bathrooms –living rooms robbed of life–

down the hallway, stitching the house into

a joyous occasion. My grandmother too. I am still

enrapt by how they both did that– pulling out notes

like songbirds from their all too human throats.

I've sang to every child I took under my wing,

remembering how important it was to have

a chord to hold onto during the days everything else

was unraveling. I hope my voice soared over

everything else to get to them. A lyric grasping

them back into our kinder world; I gave them

the softest keys I could. I hope they are brave enough

to warble and wobble and find something they can chirp

into the sky, floating into the pale blue

when their bird bones fill with lead. I hope

they cry outloud, letting every moment be both

a screech and a psalm.

I hope I hope I hope.

A feathered throat. All our chords

a chorus over time, dotting through

generations. My great grandmother soars

over everything else to get to us.

You can hear it in the way we breathe;

a melody not even Death can take.