Maybe my mother is right
and I should see a doctor
about my depression.
But which one of us noticed
the woodpecker? Its tiny brain
bashing around its skull
like a dinner bell. She wants
to talk about how to fix this,
my sleeping so much,
my failing marriage, how my
mouth is arranged on my face.
Have I tried praying?
But I’m wondering about the bird;
its fruitless hammering.
Does it know its own violence?
That there’s an easier way to find
worms? That the earth is so soft
you can even be buried in it?
Does it know it has wings.