Unattended, I Tend to Sleepwalk Around My Life

I’m an annunciation of robin-song, words the snail writes 
on lettuce leaves. I confess I’m in love with the brown-headed 
cowbird that lays its eggs in the nests of other birds, 
 
with the crows who raid the nests of other birds for eggs. 
The last time I tried to sing my tongue stuck on the roof 
of my mouth, the time I tried to warble the Steller’s jay laughed. 
 
From here I can no longer see the Necklace Nebula, neither 
can I wear it. In its place the new god on the block picks his teeth. 
My grief is a traveler on her last legs. My grief believes in digging 
 
a hole for the night. Inside the cupboard, with the five and a half 
year old box of spelt and farro mix, lives indifference. My grief’s 
got a mouth the color of abandon, hue of bourbon, of gin, 
 
but what I’m most hungry for is time, for moon grapes, and 
if you come closer, I’ll share them with you. Did you know that 
male garter snakes tangle and writhe in a single wide 
 
river until they smell the perfume of an approaching female? 
That one male will put on the female scent to fake the other guys out? 
I scare away snails with my gardening glove, trick the birds 
 
with my iBird app. When I try to sing like a varied thrush, my tongue 
burns; when I try to sing Ave Maria, I realize I’ve been sleepwalking 
all this time, and no one but I was any the wiser.