Meet me at. St. Nicholas. Among the oaks. Behind the church. . That sway like pig-tailed girls. As summer wind whistles. Around your bare-skin knees. And the forsythia leaves.
The black bird sits atop my guts and spreads its wings for flight. My shoulders back, my jaw pushed out, my stomach sucked in. Its wingtips push across my lungs and fill them full of feathers.