A piano trills in the hills
above the canyon,
your cat flings herself
at a bird touched down
on the balcony rail,
and airborne
in the lust for it,
nearly over sails her mark
and plummets. It’s a fragile magic
hems me to your spell. Bach
and afternoon noshings,
aroma of Jasmine moshing
with sudden mention of your Ex,
the familiar glint
of obsession’s crimson tint
rising to the surface
of your eye’s gray stage.
Invisible transcriptions,
the ghost notes playing:
how you look away
to speak of it and her.
I want to throw my body
at the widest empty spaces,
at something blood-warm
and winged, too,
cast my whole self to desire.
Though unlike the bird
and cat, I lack talons,
an ability to turn back fast enough,
claw the air
or whatever catches
and save myself
from a lone grave below.

So I let myself go
and fall.
I fall, bravely up.

"Red Shoes," a poem by Michelle Bitting

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Photo used under CC.