At the Bird Rehab Facility in Vermont by Katie Manning

in this place, I am Phoenix, also bird

At the Bird Rehab Facility in Vermont

by Katie Manning

The songbirds are declining
like credit cards. The woman
stating facts in the aviary
reminds me that mourning
doves make milk, secreting
the liquid from their throats
for their young. The cardinal
mom divebombs us twice, 
then returns to nest building
like nothing happened, but 
my heart is still flinching fast.
The barn owl’s face looks
wood-carved, like we could
chop down an oak and find
this face among the rings. 
Her name is St. Louis. All 
of the birds here are named
for their places of origin.
The red-tailed hawk is 26-
years-old. I don’t remember 
his name, where he’s from—
but I smile when I realize
that in this place, I am
Phoenix, also bird, and as
all the birds here know, 
we’re never just the same 
when we put our hollow 
bones together again, but 
who ever said we wanted
to rise back up unchanged.

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