white salt and other names for salt by Sky Davis

(the bird does not understand the cage,)

only the sky it cannot reach.

i press my tongue to the roof of my mouth

and it perches there, restless. the words come sharp,

all bone and flutter. i try to say one thing but another escapes —

how a sentence can break its own wings.

(once, i watched a crow drop a walnut on the asphalt

again and again, cracking it open like a prayer

that needed to be forced apart. maybe language)

is like that.

at the dinner table, i forget the word for salt.

call it white dirt. the taste of remembering.

my father laughs, but it’s the kind that doesn’t bloom.

(sometimes i mistake my mouth for an apology

and speak in half-built bridges.)

my mother once named a sparrow in our yard —

said it reminded her of home. i didn’t ask which home

because i knew she would say both.

(how many times can a word be given flight

before it forgets where it came from?)

in another language, i am an open window.

in this one, i am the crack in the glass.

i say “freedom” and it catches in my throat.

i say “belonging” and it leaves a bruise.

(the bird does not understand the sky either,

only the wind beneath it. the ache of ascent.)

in my dreams, i speak perfectly. no feathers clogging my throat.

no shadows of old tongues fluttering in my chest.

the bird returns.

it circles my ribs, taps at my sternum.

but morning comes, and the words are still clipped.

my tongue folds into paper wings. still

i tell my mother the sparrow is gone.

(she nods. says it will find its way back.)