bird around my neck

where is my heart? —rotting at the bottom of the pacific ocean
hurled      out the side of the plane
because i didn’t have the cash.

and my mouth, full
of borrowed words
worn into bloody riverbeds.

my bones remember
the implacable distance
                  of boat and plane
                  and car and train
and time. my mother grew up on an island
but never learned to swim.
learned instead to push her body
up and out—
she learned to leave.

her bones passed that to mine.
i am my parents’ child, a perfect split
of terror and albatross teeth.

when i move my body it is because i am in rome.
                  (you must burn as they burn
                  if you want to get anywhere.)
i trade legibility for permission.
and between you and me? it is not so bad
to be so startlingly bright
provided i lock my wings and avoid all the mirrors.

resistance only prompts the acid taste—
that sour bite      
that drives me to effacement.
i am perfectly content to bleach my skin
in the sun. and no, i never burn.