The night hears you,
what you pretend not to ask,
and the angel slips through
the bars of your fingers and into your body.

If you must incarcerate her,
at least sing unashamed.
If the words form a hymn,
allow your walls to reverberate.

You were nothing once
but a clutch of steel and bones,
a rusty silhouette passing
itself off as a body.

Now you are a sheet of evening air
billowed by her wings.
Even in her sleep, her breath
is enough for your skin.

The people watch your body
for omens, and sailors navigate
the ancient scars that hold your hide
but the lines of the constellations have changed.

The moon hones its sickle
against your shoulder blades.
You are the darkest breeze, and there’s no telling
what the wind might blow home.