On that predawn Tuesday
no birds sang, & I
couldn’t find my way home
down these shuttered,
unfamiliar streets.
I thought how strange
the passing cruiser
did not stop me, but
went on, business as usual,
as though the police
didn’t know a felon
when they saw one.
I thought how circumspect
the girl who served me coffee,
how well she carried on
as though nothing were wrong.
Beyond the window
birds flew about like
the uninformed while I
tried to dial a number,
tried not to think
of the doctor, how
he took me aside
to toss the word
“Down’s” at me like
a poisoned crumb,
dispassionately, like
slapping on the cuffs,
like asking a simple
question: do you take
cream in your coffee?
couldn’t remember.)
As the coffee cooled
I thought how I
had thought first
of myself, my face
counterfeiting masculinity,
my eyes holding back
their tears. How my heart
fluttered & took flight.
How I thought then
of your mother, exhausted
down the hall,
where your cries,
had you cried,
could not reach her.
How only then I thought
of you, small bird,
unmoving in your nest.
While the long worm
Of an IV fed you, I stood
quietly beside you,
watching other fathers
above their daughters cooing,
thinking how you & I
had somehow failed
to reach our destination.
& as your small breast
barely rose and fell,
I looked for traces
of the crime where
your smile should
have been, though you
were lovely as autumn,
and delicate as down.