Bird People
by Emma Goss
My mom believes
Dead people come back as birds.
To find the ones they left behind,
Appearing in the kitchen window
And humming out the soft tune
Only you know.
To visit lost lovers,
Mothers and fathers,
Friends who never heard a
Goodbye.
She believes the white heron
Was him.
His beastly eyes locking into hers,
Whispering to her heart,
It’s okay.
It’ll be okay.
She believes the mallard was him.
Stopping to drink from our
Waterless fountain.
His long grey wings resembling
The dusty beard you once had.
She believes that he drifted from the flock
Just to say
You found me.
She believes not in God,
Not in heaven
Or grandma’s midnight prayers,
Tossing coins into restaurant fountains,
Making sure to blow out all the candles at once.
She believes that
Dead people come back as birds.
To hold her hand,
Help swallow her grief.
To make sure she never feels alone.
And to watch over us like pawns,
Guiding us to the right moves,
Right answers.
I’ve tried so hard to convince her.
Telling her that this
In-between feeling,
Would fade if she just
Gave up.
But somehow,
As I lay here now,
Listening to the soft chirp
Of the morning’s
Sparrow,
I can’t help but see him too.