i’ll tire isaiah forty times over

knock on my window
ice clink together inside
my water glass—clear
tears I have not shed.

before me, grey dims
day, though night light
shines steady in dark.
i am the frigid bird, standing

on snowy branch’s edge,
awaiting flower bloom. perfume
arousing spirit song, lavender
brushing downy tips. quiet my mouth

whelmed speech, a twist forward
faucet memory. she used to hold
onto the handle in the car, afraid
the world may halve. she

always said I could speak, say
good morning. greet someone
first, not stand observant. i never
told her reaction nerves my system.

if i sat up straight, her pointer
finger moving gently heavenward
instead of hunchbacked, bringing
food to my mouth, would empty

return full a smile alighting
my heart bypassing my lips?
would my going south cause
her unseen whisper constant closure?

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