Wrist Deep

I wait for that woman who finds me not so strong
but falling, a broken piece of glass mid-flight.
In she sweeps, a strange pink flamingo, her leg gone
beneath her closet of mysteriousness, her light
wrinkled eyelids. How, I ask, or why, have they become
so dark? so made of midnight and void of life?

Little one, my small but distinct claws have come from
an evolution (they grew small like birds). My hands are the proof.

Our fingers have come from so many things; mostly feathers
wrapped up and tied into dream catchers. Our parts
are made into beauty and have been weaved, are tethers
refusing to be cut. Our whale pedal arms are a strange art.

My penguin, we’ve both put our scratches into the earth’s hardwood;
but also into water and (unflying as we are) the air, somehow launching as we should.