By All Human Measurements

When I was a yellow bird. I sat high in the jacaranda tree amongst the velvety periwinkle flowers. They looked good against my feathers. I was small then. At least by all human measurements. In bird world, I am as I should be. All feathers and down and attitude. My mother died in the mouth of a cat. I saw it go down. She was looking for crumbs, for me. I was too young to know the difference—as in what I would have been like had I a mother to raise me. I don’t know if you saw me eating or heard my song, but I was there day after day watching you in your plastic play-pool with the sponge shoved in the crack to keep the water in. your mother made fun of your watermelon belly and you cried. You looked in my direction when the girl who did that bad thing to her belly button started screaming and bleeding. You didn’t know why you had to play with the girl. Far apart eyes. Dull voice. Blood everywhere. But like all things, there are no reasons, not when it comes down to it. I sang you a song the day your dad was taken away for thinking he was Jesus. The song was the best I had—you didn’t hear it, you were explaining the universe to the ambulance guys, vying for attention. Showing them how normal you were. But, you weren’t normal. Later, after you knew me, I came to watch you from the tree above your bunk bed, but you didn’t look out. You told your mother, “I’m never wearing dresses again,” but she didn’t see the impact—not like I did. I saw you steal cheese from the fridge and wipe the knife clean. They had put locks on things and you were starving. I saw you the day you ran out into the middle of the road screaming naked wanting to go to gymnastics class. Your mother laughing at your nakedness. It made me want to be a dancer.