He said we won’t hold hands.
He said we’ll fly through clouds.
He said think of the wax as candlelight.
He said listen to what the birds whisper
when they fly close to
you.
He said each breath you take in comes through me.
He said keep your eyes on the earth,
name the mountains.
He said he had never flown before.
He said I was very brave. He wanted to marry me.
He said his garden was full of blue iris, blue as my
eyes.
He said when we get home we’ll count
the feathers
that remain on our bodies.
He said I’ll count yours, you’ll count mine.
I remember how his body heated up,
how his
feathers tore off , chasing hawks.
I remember how his arms splayed out, arching,
then
circling into autumn leaves.
I remember how he wailed at the earth
as it came to meet him.
I remember how he became smaller and smaller,
his voice a sweet, single note.
How he called my name.
