On learning I inherited
a biomarker for the disease
that felled my father,
I dream of tiny cardinals,
a plague invading
the house through a gap
in the wall. They swirl
and spawn, my bedroom
thick with red.
I thrash to catch them,
grasp at crimson fistfuls
like feathery fireflies,
trapping wingbeats
between hands clasped
in the shape of a heart:
a ribcage I crack
at the open window
to fling the infestation out,
forgetting they can fly.
As if this will kill them,
my favorite bird,
a salutation my dead
father sends. As if
this will save me—
but I was born
with a radiance of redbirds
in my blood, a brood
of drab and hardy females
roosting in my cells,
their nests already knit
inside.
