Back home, my eye sockets sprout with birds.

They chirrup electricity and boneless

smoke. We wash the walls in several kinds

of petrol: high octane diesel for me; bricks and

cracked paint of pure unleaded. Something horned

twirls inside my mouth. I lie on my childhood bed

its tendriled spine clacking against mine—

conjoined twins, abalone thorax bones

teeth against teeth, chewing our morning

sisters. Only birdsong can survive

the waste inside us. Where my room is a pill to swallow

the floor is full of tongues. Something oval

breaks inside my mouth. Ossified rage, perhaps,

calciferous shell encasing aviary

amniotics. My tongue sits still at the desert of

a blue feather. On my childhood bed

I give birth to a kingfisher.

Stillborn—

she never draws a single breath. Before I catch her

she’s made a nest between my eyes

and all I see

is blue.