you and i, we perched bright-winged-in-love on
the windowsill, leant out the open window and counted
the birds on the branches. sparrows, crows, bluebirds
with feathers like forget-me-nots.

if i ever see a bird in a cage i start to cry, i told you;
even the biggest of cages seem to close in on them, seem to
wilt their rainbow wings. you touched your lips to the curve
of my throat and whisper, hummingbird

you kissed the ivory ache of my collarbone, breathed
hello my patch of sunlight to the green flash
of my solar plexus, and etched into the skin between my legs
a sweeping sunburst of peacock feathers.

in the dark i could tell you about how my first words
were poet, holocaust and orange. in the dark i could tell you
how my first best friend was a convicted rapist. i could tell you
how the day i learnt this,

i found a tiny goldfinch in the tree outside, held it
gentle in my palm and thought i would never trust
another human again.



the day you told me i was too difficult, i climbed
onto the windowsill, spread my arms like withered wings.
i heard the echo of you saying one magpie, your memory
grey-mirror empty. you were no longer there as i flew.