Our linen closet is full
of wingless birds.
What you call a cloud, I call desperation.
Put away the thesaurus—
failure, death, defeat
—the only word for loss is loss.
And when that word appears
between us, it’s the blank sky
of wingless birds we’ve kept hidden.
I will care for them until they all have died.
And I will bury them.
You will bury the tomorrows easier than I will.
You will walk into the world and see nourishment
where I see slaughter.
I will undress at night and try to rebuild the nest.
There is simply no perfect way to say this.
I have been writing this letter for days.
