Birdhouse

It is selfish to wonder
who will bake the English muffins
once my grandmother dies.
It is less selfish to worry about
who will upkeep the birdhouse.

In her will, one uncle inherits
the t-bird, the other the money.
My father earns the property.

Because he will be busy with grief,
my father will not clean the birdhouse.
The insides will dirty. 
The birdbath will dry. 
No one will remember the cardinals
that sleep there at night,

how they must wash themselves daily

but have no clean water,

how they must hunger for virtue.

And I could change this.
I could paint the birdhouse 
back to white and patch the roof
back to better. But instead
I let it weather because

when I think about fixing things
I remember cutting snowflakes
out of paper and how I tear them
with my graceless hands.

You can turn over any item 
in my grandmother’s home
and find a grandkid’s name on it.
The silver spoons. The straw dolls.
Her favorite blouse. The welcome mat

on the doorstep. Everything
except the birdhouse.