New World Smile

If this was a different poem,
I would save my tongue, dis-
figured by small actions, cuts
like hands difficult to paint,
a spot going dot, dot, dot,
charming gravity to wake.

They pulled me from a dream
hanging me, swinging blue,
from a juniper tree, my body
now home to dark-eyed juncos –
New World smile, plumage
for teeth, skin tasting of rush.

Summer poppies frozen mid-
air, shallow scented blooms
wreathed in red, not lips
parting, kissed by cardamom,
but the milk beneath my skin,
sweet to those who weep . . .

Folded in half, the paper moon,
cursing the night air, follows my
wayward flight, slate gray mouth
lined with care, pale green eggs
taking breath. Love! I am not free,
I still sway, sway to a bitter breeze.