At the ramen shop and the hospital roof,
on that bridge in the fog and that night
in the rain, the river rushing
beneath us, our bodies
so small on stone monuments,
I reached my palm out to you;
You turned it into a fist;
We held these shapes
of light, as though light
might save us;
mine a perfect sphere,
yours
something
sharper.
I met your brother three times.
I swallowed crows and learned
to sit still. I read a book. I tasted
blue popsicles. I exchanged
promises with our friends and
met my mother for the first time;
she taught me how to tame my own beast;
she taught me how to be love that which is beastly.
I craned my body into the outline
of a scar. I grew wings that matched
yours, you blackbird, you scarlet-eyed
hawk. I grabbed your tail-feathers.
I grabbed your bloody talons.
I grabbed your electric beak,
and I pulled
and I pulled
and I pulled,
and,
eventually,
finally,
you pulled back.
Walker James and a cat live in Minnesota. They wrote poems, and they drink beers, and they watch Naruto. Follow them on Twitter @fscottnaruto1.