Cranes

To Annie

Wrecked clean through, I am

all ache these days, thinking of

my friend who tried to hang himself

with his coat and a shower curtain rod,

how glad I am that men are

not made to be shower curtains,

that some things can’t hold our weight.

How he said come over and I prayed

in tongues all the way there because

sometimes our language is stolen,

and we need a spare. Because

even words break down: migraines

fold into a migration

of cranes, paper birds sharp

in my head and unable to find south.

No compass or stars. Blind creatures

with only edges to speak of.

And me, groping.

There are so many war poems

about the body—cancer or

heartache—but how

to write one for you

when love is the landmine

I can’t stop trying

to set off. How to speak

against breaking when birds

begin there, hammering

their heads against eggshells

until the sky cracks open

bluer than anything.