Vellum

A body remembers what paper soon forgets.
Holding the weight of ink
it does not bend or break but simply lies flat.

Lime soaks the page and everything organic falls away.

Feathers: swan, turkey, goose.
It could be all the birds we have forgotten to name.

The wings will burn in water
then drown in sand.

Ready now, we'll cut their shafts:
a right angle, then the left.

Shape with a knife our pen
and dip what has touched the sky
into our very night.

At five o’clock the cows came over the hill
tit heavy, slow as drunks swishing their tails
as we dared each other to ride beside
driving them in agony to my uncle’s gate.

It was a game. A boy game
and I, the imposter tied my shirt around my waist.

Until we found the one dead, her body bloated
by the weight of her calf.
And my own mother, weeks later delivered a son
the blue cord wrapped around his neck.

Somehow in childhood I believed
the two connected, two lines
tied together in a knot.

It choked out the boy
as a girl rose guilty to take his place.