July 2026

inaudible birds

pending confirmation

on a summer evening in the Super El Niño year
a body gets to worrying
about the birds
how the babies get thrown
from their nests
in the latest desert monsoon
a week after flocks fall
dead in the heat when
the avian flu once thought confined
to factory farms
has leaked somehow to shorebirds
then seals
then sea lions
as though categories were only temporary fences
& i
want to hear what they are saying because
i worry about running
out of time to hear
meanwhile am going
on an hour now trying to log in
to this airline Yes I Did Reset the Password
& again
& again
locking on one thing i can set right by persistence
& attention to detail
& again
it does not work
with a tiny pink error code
& a miniature number
to call
but not now
tomorrow maybe at a less convenient time
when a body should be doing other work
such as the work of living
or else replying
to indicate that i have received the notices
re: updated student loan repayment plans
& re: SAT registration dates for rising juniors
& then onto work email
re: exciting changes coming this semester
(read: same dysfunction/ same hope/ new flavors. . . & a logo!
schedules & possibly even working bathrooms coming soon!)
& i have returned the bagged lettuce to the store
in response to the latest outbreak of whatever
& my daughter came home without my hearing
over three fans so when I wake sweating around 2 am to text
is everything okay? i get moose emoji in reply
& yah are you? with selfie in bed now my turn
lol laughing emoji eyes not adjusted yet
i read the clock wrong moose did not hear
& now the cat on my chest offended
by the visible bottom of her bowl
or perhaps because of the fans so loud
or something in me so loud running
wanting just a little more time to catch
the better end of the story
let there be a better end
to tell it forward this time
to tell ourselves and mean it
not
running
& it is not in the end about getting
anywhere
is it?
only not this
running so loud
& so fast
we cannot hear
the birds

notes on getting grown

with monsters

One of the scariest parts about turning from child to older is the expectation that you will know where you are going. One monster leaves her legs behind before flying. Another can be kept from finding itself again by a sprinkle of salt.

Spend long enough studying these things and eventually you stop asking whether they’re real and start asking different questions.

Where is the nearest river?
How much water is left?
Where are the birds going now?

The Vetala prefers fresh bodies because they still know how to speak.
Fill the bathtub before the water pressure drops.
Kelpies cry before storms.
If lost, leave footprints in mud or snow.

Distress signals come in threes.
Most demons look ordinary.
Emergency flashlights are hanging from the shower hooks.

Turn your ears toward distant sounds like a cat.
Three syllable words work best.
Project your voice:

Internet.
Coconut.
Spaghetti.

bodies of the storytelling kind

every beginning inherits an aftermath

We do not make of ourselves clean lines, nor do we tend to follow them. When we do, it is accident or anomaly. Some call it miracle, but what if the real miracle is how we bulge and bleed, leak and tear? The ways we absorb more than we should be able to hold. If we were ideals, we would not be this way. If we were ideas, we would not be this way. But this is the thing with being bodies. We are made of so much stuff, until we aren’t anymore. To keep growing, we have to leave parts of ourselves behind. We are here to collect ourselves. This beginning is also an aftermath. We gather ourselves in pieces, and then we let them fly.

before

what birds know first

There are things the birds know first. The approach of a hurricane, a radiation leak, the poisoning of a river. You can tell that they know because they leave.

Sometimes a witness to their departure will not notice, until later. Looking back, they will remark how suddenly it occurred to them: there were no birds. Where did they go?

By then, the coming disaster had revealed itself. Before that, the birds disappeared quietly. For most would-be observers, their absence fails to register. It is a non-event. The catastrophic ones are often preceded by a series of non-events like this.

The birds know when to go. It is believed they also know when to return. On that count, those of us in the disaster zones look out and sigh, waiting. And we say to one another, “We’ll see.”

“Wait,” we say, “and see.” Like we know.

Sometimes, though, the birds don’t seem to know. Or if they do, are without other options. That’s when you get the dead bodies around the poisoned lake along a major flyway, or whole flocks falling from the sky. That’s when scientists arrive to collect the bodies.

“We don’t have enough evidence,” they say. In every official briefing they repeat this sentiment. We are in the middle of a non-event. In a time that has no other name, which is called ordinary time. One day we may call this time by another name: Before. But any before is nameless when you are inside it.