Lovebirds roost on the broken-down swings
behind our avocado tree. Yellow crumbs
dust our sheets as gently as his palm on my leg
when he asks Why birds? Why envy them
I’m tired of watching birds, unthinking
of us as we read Einstein
& bring our wings to this weight—
across the street,
we overhear a woman & her boyfriend
from their car: she, hollering through
the open window, Did you just tell me, ‘Fuck you!’?
He, exasperated, No! I said,
'I love you!’ Oh my God, you stupid bitch.
Something’s dragged us all—our salvage
expanding toward no such thing
as the impending divorce, our common fondness
for licking lemon meringue in bed
ceasing as the secret we’ve shared
these formless years, something of
the child I keep dropping from my body.
Close your eyes
& imagine nothing we tell each other, or
imagine romance: downtown Santa Ana &
a caution-taped dumpster brimming pink Franzia-
boxes outside our apartment complex.
Love is a body
falling without feeling—weight.
Beyond us a kaleidoscope of lights hums a song that never
ends, a small clutch trilling in the sky:
Love is a spirit we’d drink all night,
if we could.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jennifer Givhan is a current NEA fellow and author of Landscape with Headless Mama, winner of The Pleiades Editors’ Prize (forthcoming 2016), and The Daughter’s Curse (ELJ Publications forthcoming 2017). She’s won a PEN/Rosenthal Emerging Voices Fellowship, The Frost Place Latin@ Scholarship, The Pinch Poetry Prize, the DASH Poetry Prize, and has appeared in Best New Poets, AGNI, and Southern Humanities Review. She teaches at The Rooster Moans Poetry Coop and is assistant poetry editor at Tinderbox Poetry Journal. You can visit her at jennifergivhan.com.