I carried a doll into class today, buried in my briefcase
like a dead bird. I’ve never
carried a dead bird
in my briefcase, but I’ve buried feathers and the most fragile
bones in my mouth so when I speak, I offer
the chance to fly.

These fictions are what I tell myself in the deep dark

but the doll slept, cradled in my students’ essays about sex
education, the American prison system, and why
the boy with breath the consistency of egg salad
called her late one night in September and they met
at a gas station parking lot and maybe she skips this part
and later they have a daughter named Sophia whose teeth
look like the little rocks she used to collect
on the beaches of Lake Superior in the summers before

If you ask me why the doll came
to class, I’ll lie to you

in the way only the greatest truths are ever told:

with an open mouth and feathers and bones,
teaching us both how simple it is to fly
and easily a live bird becomes a dead bird.