The Birds Keep Singing and There You Are, Somewhere

Written by Cameron Calonzo

Edited by Rodlyn Mae-Banting

Dry bitten lips, voice like the sun,

I guess I will always find you under my fingernails.

When I whisper your name, the fearful song

lifts and drapes across the sidewalk, through

the light-starved branches, up, up, but

not away, never away.

There’s your color in that display window.

Opaque. The kind of depth that made you look twice.

There’s your laugh in the breaking tide.

Soft. Above all, lingering.

Perched upon my chest like a sparrow in the

misty eaves, there’s you, you as I know you and

you as I dreamt you and every you in between.

In the kitchen the morning after you, I woke early.

When I was stirring the pot, the oil swirled into

the shape of a heart—though now I think

that blob could hardly be mistaken for

a heart, it was just my eyes—and I

stared at it for so long that it boiled over

and ruined my new shoes. I didn’t care, of course;

I made it for you, I made this for you,

everything I am is for you, whether you want it

or not.

I spent my nights dreaming of mirrors,

windows where I’d find you leaning against the frame,

of the gilded trail you’d leave across the cracked wood.

I would trace my thumb against the glass and

imagine it unshattered, whole and

clear; burnished, shining like the light

through the blinds, the weight even and

comforting between my palms.

Outside, I can see the birds nestled in the trees.

I can hear the faint whistle of the breeze through

each blade of grass, the skipping of the leaves

against the pavement. It’s day here, inside.

The lamp does not flicker. Yet still

I yearn for the rays of heat dancing just above

the roof. Still I ache, and I wait, and I

hum to pass the time.