Starlings build untidy nests in cavities, their chirps metallic, 
mixed up, faraway. A trained ear could call it song, but in the middle 
of Astoria, in a coffeeshop, someone leaves, saying Yassas,  

and I am back in Greece with gods, and ancients, and things
carved of marble. I hum, Have you not learned anything? A starling
can mimic a sound heard only once. I know a few birds by name.

I want to point to any scape, sound or land—the place
I live, the place I came from, the place I spent months, my body— 
and tell you what is there, and why. Will I remember the day 

I met you, how Grandma remembers Grandpa? It was August.  
This was March. She cannot meet my eyes anymore, but 
when she speaks, there’s something in there—all memory, 

all Grandpa. Grief like the closed-form ceramics we saw 
at the museum, the artist leaving small bits of clay inside, 
rattling when handled. The curators called it an interest 

in sound, the artist called it sending messages. I’m suddenly feeling  
tender. Porcelain form, salt-fired lips, touched, shaken,  
held. A crumb of leftover song rolling, clattering, in my chest.