Jessica Cordes

Migration

Last spring I flew home like a bird

to work in the rose garden, & I learned how to dead

-head through thorns, how to be fire-stung by a saddleback

caterpillar & breathe through it, how to sneeze out lavender

& sweat out grief, one morning Holly & I weeded

crabgrass beneath white hydrangeas, she told me

she can talk to the dead, I giggled & said Holly we all can

if we want to, she said yeah but they talk to me too, & I dug

down further in the dirt for roots, she palmed the crown

of her head, it’s so loud in here sometimes, like Grand Central

Station, then her voice turned to a whisper & she leaned in,

I wish you could hear it. You think your cousin’s gone; she’s not.

Then she motioned to the blooms & the oaks & the hot June air

she’s right here—they all are—it’s like they’re in the other room.