I found the partridge dead in the middle of the street one night.

I took him home, like I would any silver brush or leopard-printed pillow I’d come across

                 propped against a stoop.

I stuffed him and glued him to my helmet and spray-painted the whole thing gold.

I called him “Biography of My Thoughts.”

I called him “End of Second-Guessing.”

I called him “Brother I Never Had.”

When I slept with him on my head, my rivers ran rich, like honey poured over a pear tree.

When I dreamed, I dreamed myself weightless, eating a chocolate gun.

Now I was lighter than a piano key flung between city buses.

Now I was a pharaoh, swinging my arms into song.

*Published in Pleaides