^{“Because the grief knot is known to slip apart ‘with astonishing ease,’
it is considered one of the most insecure of knots.”
—Wikipedia, “Grief Knot”}

I not-see houses at the not-edge of the trees. Nothing gnaws through brush:
no football deflated, no crumpled seltzer cans. Possums emerge and are 
not-run over. This yard is a certified wildlife habitat. These yards Make America
Laugh Again. Go Blue. From the top of a parking garage, I face the endless
not-anything. It is almost-green as I know it not-here. A golf course is not a rash,
not a sore, not a scab. It’s not so bad. A not-lover tells me these are Midwest Clouds 
after we drive under the same frothy white for hours. There is not-not-ocean
on the other side of the road. Listen. I came from not-here. I know better than 
to fault the land. ‘Āina has not-not-synonyms. There is no water I can look at 
or not-look at and not-think of poison. Ground plumes. Oil spills. The not-
government not-warns of PFAs. Not-alarms at white foam. I am not-embering
with my not-anger. In this corner of not-Michigan, There is no public access 
to tracts of forest, wetlands, shorelines. These are not unprecedented times. 
What not-new not-apologies will we hear in one hundred years? Who will not 
make them? I am not-not-exhausted afterwalking twelve miles in not-woods 
open to not-scientists like me. There are no switchbacks. With every step, I not-
remember no mountains. No hemlocks. No cedars. No spruces. No dwarf rose. 
No roses. No roses. Nō. My mother taught me to shake branches like hands, 
to know pines by their follicles. Without her, I not-name plants with not-names 
for other plants. How much to not-remember! Mother not-not-is a metonym. 
When I not-sleep, I not-hear the train not-wailing. I am not too far from her.

there is a new big problem & the problem is the students  
have started setting up shop on the quad with their tarps  
& tents their hand-lettered signs they are cooking vast  
pots of soup they are hi-lighting Fanon & scrolling Tik-Tok  
at full volume they are starting a kind of school I am leaning  
in the kitchen of the administrator’s house pinot bright  
in my glass it would shock you she is saying how good the new  
algorithm is matches a faceprint in seconds even through  
a mask she sets a timer wipes her hands of course the fees  
are extortionate she laughs but the system will pay for itself  
if something were to god forbid actually happen of the threats  
on letterhead the teargas & beatings on stairs she says I  
was young once too you know I get it you can have your views  
but at a certain point       in the other world a Shadow 
scans the stalls of a market fresh fruit body heat a keystroke  
& a distant turret turns        she stirs the pan tops off 
my glass shallots cook in butter evening leans into the arms  
of the trees outside well okay right yes she says did you see  
the new one where that French actor plays a young Bob  
Dylan & sings all the songs himself & sounds actually  
pretty good weren’t you impressed don’t you think that  
was a risky move I swallow & say I agree I agree I am saying  
as a streetlamp snaps on revealing a grid of freshly  
mown turf clippings bagged & lined up at the curb a trail  
in the lawn where someone dragged them we’re getting close  
she says putting in the garlic & the fish

I cup my ear to your chest and 
wait for a wind chime, 
but man does it sound oily in there. 
So it is. Deep-fried, a clucking shame. 
Poor Randall Butterbean: a bird between lucks. 
But isn’t this fine? Isn’t it swell? 
Wouldn’t you rather be kettle-cooked than smeared under a 
rain boot? 
Sidewalk paté, some years later, with no pension to speak of? 
Don’t worry, my chicken— 
for the vigil, I’ve hired the best 
one-man-cockroach-band money can buy! 
              (So the talent is thin, so what? 
You know how cars pile up in the desert.) 
Anyway.         Cockroach maestro, 
won’t you sing our sweet boy downstream? 
Do you think he quivered/ 
Do you think he bled/ 
Wings pinned down/ 
To a hospital bed/ 
Did Jesus pass him/ 
In a white Ferrari/ 
Or did his heart just go              POP!

Nowhere did they charge: Guilty of ____. Me? I’m pacing the living room, full-throated and the men on screen are men. I will not compare a man to a soft-feathered bird, but have you read Eli Cranor’s Broiler? If we can agree that caging a flock without room to stretch their wings is inhumane, are we not obligated to pluck a senator’s phone number from the annals of the internet? I don’t know these men. I don’t know these men, but spittle flies from my lower teeth as I pace and shout. Maybe the beaded black eyes of birds is nothing to no one. Maybe that’s a double negative for a reason. Maybe subject and verb disagree for a reason. Where was I when no one offered due process? Brooding, probably. About money or the broken left-front burner on the stovetop. The worn-through soles of my Chuck Taylors. Nowhere did they chant USA as they bent the men in half. Imagine: being one of these half-bent men. Nowhere did they say, explicitly, run little birds, run. I’m making sense of why, when Kilmar Jr. looks in the mirror, he sees white tube socks scurrying a cement floor. A boy’s hand. Fingers weaving between bars. A whisper: Fly little flightless bird. When they plucked these men, did I—no-one’s mother—wretch? Nowhere is a person free when men cage other men. Nowhere is America. Nowhere. Maybe a gap between a boy’s baby teeth. Maybe a legion of milkless mothers. A lit match. An unbolted cage.