She is going to fly
and I am coming to earth
a stone stood before the door
then stepped aside
the wings she’d torn from her back
caught on the whiskers of the grass
I drop my feet in the muck
and go on rolling, tail tight held by these small teeth
my eyes closed to keep the soil out of them
hands released from bars
she clings to the arms of sagging chairs
her balance resistant, distant
we will come back this way to look in the windows
but the soul won’t be in the room
it will be paying out a thread we follow
at the first tangle I have to sit down
outside it is cold as a little white fish bone
a new home overhead
heaven opened for the whole body
by hooked toes to the cracked skin
of the cedar a cicada’s husk clings until
a finger tears it loose
not one of these shoes fits, she says
loose skin but not empty
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