Lizzy Burnam 🐞

In a past life I was a dancer. I know this 
because I met my former dance partner, reincarnated 
as an off-duty police officer, in an airport bar at Chicago O’Hare. 
We watched airplanes traffic in and traffic out 
in their own kind of swing, a free show 
through the glass window pane like a great clear sky 
and our little hearts spun bright like disco balls. 

In a past life I was a seamstress who could spin silk from dust. 
I know this because I met an old friend while digging 
through a box of rusted metal in the tool shed. 
She was mute, a thimble, but I embraced her gladly 
with my thumb and I felt the knowledge of her hands
dragging across my skin like a bolt of lace. 

In a past life I was a dodo bird. I know this 
because I met the Dutch pig who plundered my nest, 
standing in line behind me at the liquor store
with sour-fruit breath and a wooden stare, solid as a bludgeon. 
I opened my mouth to cry but no sound came out 
and I felt a muscle tear in phantom wings that could not fly. 

In a past life I was a three-fingered ukulele chord. 
I know this because I met the strummer 
selling home-crafted milk and lavender balms 
at a local farmer’s market, their hands in this life 
soft as a lullaby. When they sighed, I heard it 
perfectly: E minor, a note that lingered, hallelujah. 

In a past life I was a clock-maker. I know this 
because I met a fellow guildsman peering through the keyhole 
of my front door. He said he was selling bibles, 
$10 apiece, not too steep a price to release my immortal soul 
from the clutches of evil. Time is ticking, he said, 
and in his voice I heard the turning gears of a tiny machine. 

In my next life I’ll be a honeybee. You’ll know this 
because you will be a lilac tree in full bloom.
I’ll visit you to smile and see you smile back at me
and the faces of all my past lives will wink at you
through my five black eyes. I’ll take a long drink 
of nectar and promise, once more, this is not goodbye.