Flight

Every woman knows the beginning of the end

is avian, wings splayed across windshield in surrender.

He makes the silent city his accomplice

as yellow flicker beam traces asphalt.

Begin with a smile through feathered teeth,

heavy your hands with blood, fist leather until your nails crack.

The streetlights won’t save you tonight.

You’ve been painted in silk, peacock

blues and greens, slipping into dead night.

This sidewalk is slick with grease and something

untamable; language turns the corner and finds

no home. To speak is to kill.

It is winter by the time you muster a

parable, something like please

something like fly, something like away.

People think the end is silent, stale,

an old woman’s dying breath. Listen: to the wings

rustling in the gutter, hushed birdsong in the sewers

beneath your feet. Look: you and him,

sweat matted to your foreheads

as the vultures purge this city of sin

and the feast begins.