Good poem in the new Boston Review

Ambiguous Origins

Jack Boettcher

The desk is of a deep grain like a stirred pond
but also scored with nicks. Whenever I open it,
select a hammer, and try to describe, with hammer,
my origins, these grackles always flock up
from the power line as low as my shoulder
as though jolted by a surge (they looked
lifeless before), and hover in the close gray damp
to whoop wings all at once. That’s how
I was born: all at once. Born in the suburb
with a pocketful of what. Born in the riverbed
just moments before the flash flood.
I was born busy in some new kind of flight, and
though I don’t recall it, that’s the wonderful story
I’ve always been told. In a spring-green slum
those birds will swim you with their dreaded drone.