The sky rains birds. The birds it rains are dead. The birds are always dead before they hit the ground.
They fall. They do not fly. Their wings are folded flat, their feathers damp. They look like streaks of human hair tear-wet from crying.
You are scared of the birds. You say, birds do not fall. But the sky is all wrong and they do. The sky is sick of being where the birds must go.
We arrange all the birds on white sheets by their color and size. We arrange them all out on the lawn, on one day when the sun is not black and the sky is not gray.
We arrange the white sheets like a sky that is home to the birds. We arrange the white sheets like the white sky is where they belong.
You say, that one’s a scarlet tanager. I say, it’s not. That bird is cobalt blue.
You say, sometimes their names do not reflect the colors that we see. Sometimes that is the way the sky gets even.
You take measurements of all their wings. You make small splints and bandages. You tell me it is time to save the birds.
I say, the birds are dead. You say, that’s not the point. You push my hair aside because it’s sticking to my face.
Meghan Lamb is moving to Toledo, Ohio. Her novel, Silk Flowers, is forthcoming on Aqueous Books in August, 2013.