My mother opens her mouth to speak, and
Swarms of locusts fly out. The plague is near.

My father's face is a closed casket.
Nothing gets in. His end is only your beginning.

This is how conversations are made, you said.
You asked me to come with you. "Outside

There is more space to fly in. We can leave that cell."
I spread my wings, test my muscles against the

Force of nothing. The weight of a rainshower.
Conversations begin and end, hinge upon closed doors.

The crow was found dead in the morning, outside in the garden
Claws curled tight, drops of red like jewels on its feathers.

We did nothing; we closed the door.
At night we remember to shut the windows so nothing gets out.