You Say I’m Obsessed With Birds

Nesting in the pockets of shirts hung on clotheslines.
It’s 1989. Then grey sky is sold
in coffee cups, lipstick becomes the national
anthem. My heart rides the beat of hummingbirds.

Mother says she’s dying. What should I say?
The traffic lights will all stay red? I want
to hold her, but instead become the chipping
sparrow, singing frequently. I close my eyes
and see vacant lots. Empty pockets call me home.