Back then,
birds flew out my mouth all the time.
I refused to cage them with my teeth,
chose instead
to watch them flap against the blue of sky.

The looks I got didn't matter,
or the whispers about the feathers in my hair.
I'd let those creatures emerge from my lips,
slick wings beating the space
at the top of a classroom. Or watching
from a tree as I ate my lunch,
beady eyes curious.

Now there is silence
where wings once fluttered.
My mouth has become a nest.
Each secret a smooth warm egg
to hold on my tongue,
to protect.

And when I can't help
but cough out something
I don't want to remember,
I am surprised by its stillness,
the smallness of the oval
in my palm. Each freckled
with a different time.

Soon the egg is shut away in a drawer,
cold, robbed of its becoming.
My collection rolls around
each time I open it,
that hollow turning
replacing the birdsong in my head.