That night, thickened with summer, beneath a bridge
illuminated by gold-trimmed lanterns, we blurred the pond
You told me about the dream in which you were the last bird
in the world, born an elegy to flight, how you woke grieving
the animal you could have been
with the ferocity of a wound’s gaping mouth,
enjoyed the moment you had no one left
to disappoint before remembering why. My love,
what we make of loss is a sport
that kills us.
Your daily return to the knife-point of a burning city,
planting loyal bones in the earth
to beg for those faces the soil now mothers.
Despite the birds being gone, the falling of other things
to the earth so slowly we could almost
find above each growing shadow
a wing shaped from fire.
The beloved body that bore you across any distance wept,
I wish the earth only moved when I let it.
My life, standing still despite this fact
is, too, an act of defiance.
It is not the moon’s light that demands our praise
but the distance it travels
to reach us.
Read more from Issue No. 15 or share on Facebook and Twitter.