He dreams of birds

Pamela Wax

He dreams of birds

that resemble you. He resembles you. He is not a bird, though when he jumps to dunk a ball, he is suspended, like you dancing, a Chagall, everything floating, houses and cows. You visit when he sleeps. You are crow, bluebird, cardinal, canary—you choose the color, and he supplies the plumage, shows me a single feather left on his pillow in the morning, lets me stroke it against my cheek.