Kristy Bowen

rescind

In the story in which Amelia
is transformed into a dozen sparrows,
day arrives like a rustling in the mailbox.
A chalky, soft bodied sighing.

Dressing her, we are seized by
the mechanics of it, counterweights
shifting and clamoring against her spine.

Her pronouns are off for days.
She becomes you becomes it.
We make a hole in the house
big enough for whatever arrives
still breathing, torn open.

The irony is in the stitches
we use to make things whole
again. The damage that
touches the wires touching.