In My Third Happiest Life
I couldn’t sing, only call a hollow
hoot to the moon hanging in a lake.
I was a cuckoo bird, a murderer
and fugitive—abandoning
my babies in the nests of other birds.
I kicked many eggs
to the ground to make room
for my own. Then with the lightest
of hearts, I took flight and forgot
them all—lover, child,
the dead and splintered, the ones
that I wronged. Nature made me free
to live in a shadowy world
between tree and sky, singing
my ghost coo in the yards of men.