The Nighthawks Circle Lila

Like she's something to be memorized.
Except she's miles down looking up
to a smokestack
the birds dizzy with their maypole spirals
ribbonless but persistent.
The slash of white a liquid paper
arrow pointing the way, pointing out
the sky's follies and the bearded clouds.

With a pocketknife and dull magic
Lila carves some ice wings
for lucidity and elevation, a way
she might say, to chill.
Now she's airborne
cutting through the flyway
of angels and ghost babies.

Now she's aiming for the highest, coldest part of the sky
past the luna moths that crave streetlamps
casting pyramids of light
spiked with nighthawk hunger
and the flutter of wings taking in wings
taken in by Lila elated.
A breasted Icarus she is all
altitude now, all heaven-held and slow melting.

Copyright © 2003 Ariana-Sophia M. Kartsonis All rights reserved
from The Book of Lila
The New Michigan Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission