Odd palsies in the red
of a desert. Hives at the wrist,

anxiety like a heron
under my lung, winging up

openmouthed. There is no body
of water here, no mangroves

to hide in. Only insomnia,
stacked rattles stammering

loose in the tail’s slow
taper, scales also

worming away, a reminder
of this privilege: to reappear

whole, having indulged the strange bird
its hollow bones inside me.