Erica Reid

Papaw sends me blue jays. I talk to them 

as he and I never could — he died before 

I had real thoughts, before worries and 

awakenings perched on me with loud wings. 

He bought his cigarettes by the carton. 

My grandmother scrubbed tar from their walls 

and — I am realizing now, in this moment — 

my asthma may be linked to many nights 

spent coughing in the next room. Someone 

dispatches crows and larks to the cemeteries 

I amble through like parks. I like to read the names 

of people who, for all they knew, might have 

loved me as I grew. Another flash of blue: 

when I draw too close, this new jay jukes 

and croaks. Cold morning air fogs up each note 

like smoke.