I made friends with a dead sparrow I found on the sidewalk, rigid in the center of a carved heart. I groomed it scrupulously. The only blood was a fleck in the eye. I could make the sleek wings glide and twirl despite a force that held them shut. As we were soaring among those trees scored with dates my mother called.
No, no, it isn’t me, that breathless name filling with yearning, then rage, then yearning.