Tanya Rastogi

Where the Birds Went

Beneath July sun, a voice unravels
               into kitchen smoke, golden oil coating
our crooked girl teeth. Here, you ask me
               where the birds went, and I answer–
where it's clean, which is to say: where we
               are still dew-fresh and petaled. Today
we search for our reflection in the
               shit-green puddle beside the sewer
drain. You open your mouth and contort
               your lips like a fish. I open my mouth
and surrender to vanity, skin peeling
               in soft scales. A face replicated to split
tenderly under rough tongue–and maybe
               this mouth hung loose long before the final
bleed, hemoglobin eddying in smooth blue
               light. Home videos replacing heartbeat.
Repetition as a plea for return. On the
               pavement, we birth slick brown cheeks and
a want greater than thirst. Ma does not
               know this body is not ours, lungs
overfilled with prayers for American
               excellence, curls disentangled to ribboned
polyester: Participant of. Runner-up. First
               place! The UV index is 9 and the air absorbs
our breath and we wish we were inside,
               burnt fingers splayed in sacrifice atop
the cutting board, onions coaxing shame
               from our hungering eyes. After we decided
sinlessness was too heavy to inherit, Ma
               sank through the orange-moon slits of light
that paint the living room at 2am, silvered
               silently to the glint of unwashed dishes and
our melted reflection begging for materiality.
               It's only noon and we're starting to feel a little
faint, a little weightless. Unborn, rosy-pink, and
               maybe it's time we unlearn how flowers
unfurl–soft, to the sky, loved, and then–
               digested between the jaws of a thousand flies.