Lying in a hospital bed 
my crooked neck like a flamingo 
looking for sustenance in sand 
hiding fear under a rock 

in the shallow sea,
I still don’t know what I am  
beyond a collector 
of seaweed 

and broken shells.
I remember lighting 
all those fires on pools 
of oil water, 

bright orange 
like mid-summer sparklers 
before blowing them out 
with my impatience. 

What is left now 
is not a metaphor for mother, 
but an open window 
letting in birdsong.