Dear Emily —

I wonder whether “hope” once flew
from its perch
in your bedroom,
out a window, away
from your open hand.

If it did, with no promise to return,
or explanation for its departure,
did you bother about it,
or did you know
better —

My body is accustomed
to its loneliness,
and I’ve never kept a bird
in my bedroom, but I am waiting
for the sound of its wing
beating.

We who keep company
only in words,
what will become of us
when language won’t bend
to our ear —