from the child shape
comes birdwoman
wings poised on the tips
of departure
all of her Shine
reaching out
in this pre-flutter flight
I lurch towards her already absence
eyes closed,
feeling for the edge of the world
where is the back of the sun?
today I read about a father
who chained his child to a bed
they forgave his torture
I want to keep her,
mine – not mine
mine is the echoing nest,
pressed between these hollow palms
Skye Reynolds 