Dad is driving me home from the train.
“That hawk dive-bombed the window
and died on the table. I got rid of it.”
I think of garbage, our bones. I walk down
To the edge of the woods. No power;
I can’t use the toilet. Our ground is hollow:
Years of Dad seeding grass, grubs
Eating roots, Dad poisoning them.
Nothing dies, just hollows out.
We never begin that tree-house, broken
Glass grown into the ground, bits of sky
Reflected as in lakes seen from your plane
Crashing over Minnesota.
I am at my friend’s house, doing laundry,
I tell him how I sat in the yard playing
And how that hawk cawed with me.
I wanted to see its eggs then, to know
it found a mate around my house.
I come back a year later. A few days
Feeling hopeless until I see a hawk
Against white, winter sky. A baby,
Alive. How old could it have been?
I want to speak to it, to tell it I’m sorry
for living here and leaving it empty.