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.

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