Leslie Cairns | What They Don’t Tell You

Once you’re a mom, everything makes you cry. The lamb cake you made me ten years ago, to show me how Easter was supposed to go–

I cry now for the way you shaved the icing, almost like foam, to get it just right. You’ll never know I’m in the patio of my Colorado bungalow, crying for the way you made

Something for me, that I still hold tight. I cannot watch videos of a star burning out. I wonder who made it and where it came from and how we’ll never know. I can’t hear that humans will end billions of years from now, because my son exists, and maybe someone down the line will still have his laugh–

And how could you extinguish that?

Feathers, wax

Floodings, brass tax.

A bird snuck into our flooded and doomed apartment once. Stayed the night, unbeknownst to us,

While we were displaced into a Hilton hotel. No room service, which surprised us, but there

Was a taco place with live music, and we had a per diem, and so we ate guac and sour cream

And gushed over the luxury. As I came back, I was sobbing. I gingerly held her in a blanket. Or, perhaps it was a shirt my boyfriend never wore anymore. How his shoulders used to look so good in this, I said, wiping back salt. Not even knowing what I’m trying to say. But knowing this bird flew too fast. Craved home too strong. & now might be hurt forever.

From coming in contact with my salt and tears

Saliva and newest fears–

Please be good, I say to the swallow.

Please figure out how to leave here–

Hoping her wings don’t melt under my touch. Hoping the wax of my fingers doesn’t push her too close to the sun.

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