I pick up a stone and name it
Every time you’ve hurt me. I keep it
in my mouth, let it click
against my teeth. The feather tangled
in my hair is from a country
called Your father’s dying. Someday
I will be enough feather and tangle
to lift myself away. The hawk-scream
through my window is My grandfather
used to pray for me. Holy oil
from a jar inside his shirt pocket
rides the currents of my skin. Some
things have no names yet: the pine arrow,
the robin’s beak, the washer on a string
that could break any moment.