In the Birder’s Dictionary I read about a bone
near the bird’s heart, called xiphoid, 

meaning sword shaped. My fingers reach for my ribs.
If my father’s anger were shaped like his swimming pool  

instead of a sword, he could sink down  
under the surface and listen.  

I could return my sword-shaped heart  
and pick out something else.  

If my husband’s pain were cup shaped,  
he could add milk, then drink.  

I’d cut out my tongue  
and grow a more tender one.  

If the martyr’s vision landed on his mother’s oleander, 
he could soak up the rich scarlet of its flowers. 

His mother could join him. They could stare and exclaim. 
I could dream up a new language 

to speak to martyrs. 
If all the fathers could find themselves 

on the maps they’re born with, they could free their eyes
to look that way. 

I would wait on the road, ready to paint a ruby
X to mark their spot. 

From Sister Tongue (The Kent State University Press, 2022). Used by permission of the Publisher. All Rights Reserved.