From deep inside your black overcoat
words, like a lost bird,
are trying to find a way out—
now that you have begun
you won’t stop and I am waiting.
What is it? What happened?
A long time ago people were hurt and you caused it.
I think you said you were Sorry
or Stupid or Worried.
You were not looking at me—
but staring straight ahead
through the windshield of the car
at the night and the snow.
Trapped in a house, a bird will dive and circle back
from room to room from window to chair
any steady edge
between lifting up and landing—
flight is what comes before telling
or just after.
Copyright © 2017 Maggie Anderson
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, LLC on behalf of Four Way Books.