I was born in a forest.
Crows cut me from the mother tree.
Nightingales cleared the dirt from my ears,
opened them to sound.
When the owls spoke
they always made me answer
in my own language.
It is still so difficult to translate
the vines growing out of my head.
Words frail as glass bubbles
Slice my lips.
Stir, you stranded stutter sound.
Contributor’s Notes: Jennifer Burnau’s poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Voices from the Attic, Vols. XIII and XVIII, and Pittsburgh City Paper.