Connective Tissue: Part II

In a forest of starlings
there is no sound.
This worries me.
Should there not
at least be a muttering?

I once read—
this was how you died,
in whispers that you did not hear—
but I only heard the last blood
returning from her fingertips.

Last night I spent
hours trying to acquaint myself
with my vestigial organs.
I feel as though
I am missing something.

 Most days I am nothing
more than a few
carefully constructed sentences
invented from shades of gray,
and the musicality of air in the lungs.

I have assembled my self
from cardboard
jigsaw-puzzle pieces, scattered,
then collected
from dusty corners
and curbside drains.

Glenn Ashley Patterson is a recent graduate of Montclair State University’s English program. She currently lives and writes in New Jersey.