This is a poem I did not write:
When I saw you in the supermarket
under fatal fluorescent lighting,
a faint supermarket buzz coming from ­somewhere,
and watched you try to decide between ­cereals
I realized
that your hands are birds with broken wings
and that all the blackness in the world
is void
and I realized
that your ankle bones
jutting from under your cuffed navy blues
are glaciers
under the ocean
of your skin
and as you brushed your hands
across your cheek
I realized
that your freckles
are nesting grounds
for the birds that are fighting to get out
from within your bones.
I did not write this poem,
you see –
for it stood in front of me
and chose Cheerios.