Because I couldn’t stop her flying,
I joined her where she leaked wet music,
entered her from behind and below,
watched her shoulders bunch and tent and spread,
held her working wings,
slip of bone and meat to beat down air,
saw her spine leap
from the hair of where I joined her
to bury myself in the part of hair
at the vulva of her skull,
and she warned me:
Don’t look down.
I looked down,
and clenched her wings to me until they snapped.
When we fell,
I drove up in as far as her heart.
It stopped me as it stopped,
took me in its open fist
and held on as I shook free
the last white drops.
She turned beneath me then,
leaned back on wings that broke again
and broke again, crackle of burning straw.
And when I raised my eyes
from her blind, staring breasts,
she warned me:
Don’t look up.
Richard Lehnert
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