LADY OF THE IBIS

  after Daria Petrilli

They follow me, these red birds,
wings folded
as if flight is a dream. 

In silk pajamas
a girl and a girl and a girl 
perch on the edge of the bed.

I tell them they're warriors—
badass mythical beings
meant to rule the sky 

but all along I know
they're just wild, ruffled things
that fell through the clouds.

They scream and thrash and scratch,
their healed bones
always on the verge of breaking.

At dawn
when they recede down the driveway
wind kites the leaves

but I shutter my mind against color.
Their case worker
flashes me a sad smile

as I give them the royal wave,
sip morning coffee,
revel in uncomplicated light.

At nightfall, the windows
frame familiar eyes
wide and dark and unblinking.

Beaks peck at memory  
as the fire shadows of feathers
stain my skirt.

So I lasso a gossamer string
around each thin neck—
give (at least) their ghosts

a lesson about how easy it can be
to forget the wide, wild embrace of air   
after the sky forsakes you.

Lori Lamothe recently published her fourth poetry collection, Tulip Fever, with Kelsay Books. Her poems have been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. She is an assistant professor at Quinsigamond Community College and a (belated) MFA student at the University of Houston-Victoria.