“It,” not so easily defined,
catches and clouds in my throat.
Previously shot down
in a blistering passion, and riddled
with disappointment,
vague answers to important questions,
and the kind of wasted possibility
you’ve seen in a used syringe
abandoned by the park fence.
Although it may seem
wounded and unkempt,
I can feel its remaining life
writhing, wondering, and desolate.
So I let it grow, with no hope of air,
and with my eyes closed, it thrives—
sprouting fresh white plumage,
collecting its strength,
pecking, p-peck, pecking
at the back of my tongue
and sucking up my oxygen.
It’s the taste of blood
that makes me come to
before the riotous flutter of feathers
works its way
to the edge of my lips.
I watch as it lifts off, up, out, and away—
wings spread in a striking spectrum
of well-played deception.
It flies, now, fearlessly—
commandeering its own air,
and I breathe easily
knowing that it won’t die
with me.