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Wing We find you, dear Wing, in the half-dark on the way back from the piglets, your knuckle of raw bone and streak of claw-white quills torn from the socket. A grey goose soars up high where hot-air balloons drift and the wind is a shape to wrap yourself around solid but unseen, a somersault inside the womb; here, folded to a cup of hands, plump as a wood pigeon in the long, flat January grass you are singular and intense like a girl breathing quietly by a window, her just-cut hair pressed against the glass. 12
page 15
My Limbs Beat Against the Glass I am trapped in a room where my baby dies and when I try to fight my way out a Victorian lepidopterist with walrus whiskers skewers my solar plexus and pins me to a felt-backed board, so my limbs beat against the glass like a moth battering a paper lantern, as he tightens the frame to a vacuum. 13

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Wing

We find you, dear Wing, in the half-dark on the way back from the piglets, your knuckle of raw bone and streak of claw-white quills torn from the socket.

A grey goose soars up high where hot-air balloons drift and the wind is a shape to wrap yourself around solid but unseen, a somersault inside the womb;

here, folded to a cup of hands, plump as a wood pigeon in the long, flat January grass you are singular and intense like a girl breathing quietly by a window, her just-cut hair pressed against the glass.

12

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