Someone somewhere turned 7 today, perhaps it was your son, held onto the drawing on the fridge of your stick-figured body. I wanted to erase the lines he created because I didn’t create him, that yesterday on the porch when you said his name and I gathered the name in to make wings of it. Where did it fly to? The top of the crabapple tree he could not climb. When he had feathers you watched him from the window, black against lush green. You wanted the earth to shake but it already had and nothing — not even his name — could crack it open again.