Power Lines

I trace the sparkly bird stickers back
            to Apgujeong, childhood, under the childhood
desk I still haven’t

            outgrown. Its birch skin wrinkles
now, just as it wrinkled then. The whispers
            of graphite darkening the surface

to sepia. Once, I hung the stickers low enough
            to touch the herringbone floor. From wood to glass
door, frame to pane. Each bird, little

            more than ghosted soot, still sticky
to the touch. I remember the silver
            pigeon—stubborn, as stubborn

as stray pencil shavings. So, when its edges frayed, I was
            sorry
I didn’t feel sorry. It just wouldn’t fly

            back to the first grade flea market—I wondered
if I should just rip it off. Then, I wondered
            if I should’ve wondered at all, picking at

my thoughts. Pecked with scars
            of occasion, my childhood room’s varnished tiles shadow
my footsteps as I hopscotch and skip, the forgotten remnants

            of Matchbox car tantrums in their wake. I was
afraid nostalgia would stick to my feet, or worse, disappear
            and reappear underfoot. Like that

I walked through my room—head hanging, eyes
            glued to the stickers cascading across
the ground—to the recliner, where I spent whole cycling summers lying

            sideways, head and legs hanging
from the arm—at least until I was too big to squeeze
            my torso between the armrests—to reach the toy chest, smudged

crayon speaking imagination, chocolate brown down
            each step of my bunk bed, until delight
faded. Until that pigeon carried them

            in its beak, from my window, balancing
on power lines, and I watched, between
            frosted fingerprints, until the scrape of a car honk

                                                                                    scared it away.