I Have Since Gone Dry

There once was a little bird on my tongue, tip-perched,
talons flexed and body quivering, open beak cocked back,
ready to receive the worm, but I’ve since swallowed whole
her song, and twice tweezed feathers from my tearducts,
white as salt, dry as salt. I lay them on my tongue each
time to taste the tang of words once on the wing.