I migrate to the woods searching for what it means to be scavenged. There is no woods. My kitchen picks clean the leftover rotisserie and I’m alone. I’m no vulture according to my mother. Hundreds of miles of sky left to circle. Hundreds of miles my father lies in a strange bed like tossed bones and he believes he’ll walk again soon after the surgeries and infection and I want to believe his belief, I really want to. He’ll be moved out of the nursing home soon, blue sky. I breathe alongside the silence and is there such a thing as circling too many times before landing and what happens then? Sciatica speaks through my mother and her job eats away at her and I’m away and home is a place I don’t know anymore and everyone is tired and where can I help in all this. Phone calls the weight of clouds break every wall between blue sky and leg bone and lately the hollow weekends announce themselves in every flavor of guilt.

There are many ways to ring a moon. Scientists have been baffled for centuries on what conditions make a good person and I don’t have any leads there either. Who keeps turning off the lights, who is it? Don’t look at me too long or you might see something beautiful that’s not really there—

In my mind’s largest tree house, I sleep there occasionally. Every fungus has a story and it usually begins in a bed of longing. April has a way of seeing me all the way through to my skeleton, the night rain. A dragonfly’s sense of self, no doubt. I once asked a four-leaf clover why it believed everything happens for a reason. I was never good at accepting answers I didn’t like. A small blue window sits above the heart singing believe, believe, over and over again to no one in particular.