after “Object,” Meret Oppenheim
When I touched your nape,
my finger came away
slick as if after a birth
inspection. But one,
two, three birds emerged
from between your breast-
bone and your shoulder
blade, then made their way
to the nearest thing
covered with leaves.
Under the canopy I wait
with these empty vessels,
midwife to air: my spoons
of skin and hair tipping.