“Spirit Box” Michayla Ashley

You really are my daughter, says my mom. Her hand

          slick with honey and coated with swan feathers

smooth down my pig skin arms to lock

         our pinky fingers. What a view. Our eyes follow

the swaying of my handmade house from its perch,

           a tightly coiled tight rope mimicking the neighboring

power lines where sparrow eyes are watching

           as she kisses my cheek and hands me a loaded rifle,

tells me to stay safe, not to mind the sparrows, and walks

           away. The sparrows begin their taunting. Us sparrows 

know a well-made tree house when we see one. Yes, yes, 

           well-made, we see, we know. This one here is anything 

but. Look at the way it tilts! If we were to fly close and sudden, 

           then it would lean too far to one side and fall. 

And do you smell something? I do, I do, rotting wood. 

          She used rotting wood. Rotting wood, can you believe it? 

The loaded rifle becomes heavy in my hands and I wonder

          if I could snatch away the spirit

         box in their quarter thick throats.