I am eagle; don’t be fooled by red silk
heels that sound so much like clanking clay
on hardwood floors where you and I one night
did lay when there was no heat left
to warm a chilling breast,
when your dense chest fell wet on mine.
I found a feather when you left,
it lay upon a pillow drenched in you.
Perhaps it was inside. It matters not,
as I have since then eaten it
and cannot prove to you that
it did, in fact, exist.
Before I’d ever heard your name
or pictured how you might have looked,
before I’d seen your constant face —
the one that waits inside dark eyes
to see if I can truly fly, or if instead
you might just plant my pinioned feet
into your waxy wood-grained floorboards,
making plumage turn to twigs that dangle
down a perfect fruit which you could pluck
from your soft bed while I grew old and weary
(but I was eagle; I grew light and wild) —
long before I’d brushed your flesh, these wings
had taken me to heights much higher than those red
silk shoes, those platforms to your dreamworld.
