let the birds in

until the light inside feels bright

The birds are trying to get into the Gazebo. They feel something; the air is damp and cold. Maybe that’s why at night I close the curtains in every room. Except in the kitchen, in that room, pots and pans hang on black iron hooks above the window, so in that room, there’s nowhere to hide. Sometimes, standing there, I feel like someone is in the dark between my house and the neighbors. I can’t see them because I am standing in my warmly lit kitchen, but they are there, waiting and wanting me to take it all for granted. I sneak upstairs, holding my breath, stepping into the shower, and pulling the white curtain. It’s safe, in this corner. Warm water pours from the faucet, and the shampoo smells of lavender. Someone took the car on Sunday. The whole car. Just stole it right out of the driveway. So when I got home, I opened the Gazebo to let the birds in. It’s gotta be bad luck to turn away birds. They’ll watch you from the trees and talk about you forever. About how you have so much, are still so afraid, and give so little. So few fucks given as you use the last slice of bread and throw the plastic bag into the recycling. Plastic everywhere; on the cucumbers, cradling the kiwi that took a plane from god only knows where. Then guilt even while slicing watermelon for the girls - we don’t deserve watermelon, probably no one does, except the people who live where watermelons grow — if that’s even a real place. And you wonder, where do they grow? As you wait for the birds until the light inside feels too bright, until you can’t see into the dark anymore.

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