You’ll never bring yourself to enjoy the actual
sparrow, only its sound, the idea, its chip,
the pluck to stay when friends migrate.
Julie leaves the coast for the lakes
then stumbles home. You kiss her
cheek looking not to her eyes
but to the long expanse of sea she claimed.
Shades of ocean, countless. Tree-swallow teal,
barista-hair blue with flecks of bleach at the ends.
Also: thrushes, even through the cold months, loves
that come around as friendships.
Another knocking at the window he knows
is yours even with the lights closed
around the house—songs of return
don’t always comfort. Some sing
the boundary of a windowpane, others
use owl howls, unattainable in canopy.
You a faint red halo half-heartedly tracking.
Hold up for him an oak leaf from your limbs,
thicker than paper but full of holes
as you pretend this is about taking a stroll.
The next day you walk in the Audubon park
to the waterline, feeling like a siren, only
no wrecks. It is sunny out, barefoot
the sand stings. Wade into singe again
as you will, as it is written
on the thousand envelopes scattered
across your bed. Are you awake?
Smell the petrichor. Rain is coming,
rain has been. After the noise of thunderstorms,
you wait in your parents’ bed again, listening
for the katydids to tell you: it’s over. It’s okay.
Joey Gould, a non-binary writing tutor, wrote The Acute Avian Heart (2019, Lily Poetry Review). Twice nominated for Bettering American Poetry and once for a Pushcart Prize, Joey's work has appeared in Moonchild, The Compassion Anthology, Memoir Mixtapes, & District Lit. Joey's character Izzie Hexxam features in The Poetry Society of New York’s Poetry Brothel. A long-time event organizer at Mass Poetry, they also plan & execute poetry events at Salem Arts Festival.
