LUISA MURADYAN TANNAHILL
The morning is almost too white
I look down and continue peeling plums.
My grandfather dead but not quiet.
The sound of mourning rising and falling
my grandmother calling all the birds
in Texas by their Ukrainian names
Kran, vorona, shulika, Luisa.
Our birdhouse overcrowded with
ghosts who push out the hummingbirds
and sing such strange music.
208 The Paris-American