I.
desire
Said the little mocking-
girl to the crow:
Darling, don't be a cuckoo.
We are not the kinds who
put the things we love in gilded cages,
to watch them molt there,
disarmed of charms and lovely
as dead beasts.
Said the little crow-
boy to the mocking:
My heart is a paper airplane
that you have torn to shreds,
my heart is confetti stuck
in your feathers; I am always leaping
from windows,
flying straight on, straight on
'til morning.
II.
freedom
The girl was ragged from
running. She never hopped
a train but she knew how to
get Lost.
With no use for maps, she followed
the dusty blue paths of
meteors, kept stories in her
pockets like candy, sweet sticky
bites of words to tempt lovers.
She said, But, oh, I do
form attachments, fall forever in love
with each new sidewalk, each new
face - I gave up on breadcrumb trails
because the rain only washes them
away, but I leave bits of me
with every person, every place.
There is a boy who wears my
left ringfinger bone as his
belt buckle, and my freckles
were sprinkled like salt
into the stewing Susquehanna.
III.
danger
And I fell so many times,
or was pulled down
by boys with tattoos up their sleeves
and hats full of tricks.
They forced me to my knees with a
look, a kiss, as good as a gun
held to the back of my skull.
They tied me to traintracks,
or whispered raspy in my ear
after too much whiskey, told me
the things they would do to me, if
only, if only there was any
real danger there at all.