Out of the Light
She came out of the light, out of the wonder.
Wounded. Half blind. Enormously strong.
She came to me for shelter: I did what I could.
I fed her bowls of syrup,
I stroked the clutching muscles of her thighs;
I watched her wings
fill with new blood. Uncrumple.
The web of arteries, arterioles,
the threads of capillaries --
all engorged, until her wings
rose above me like sails.
She bore it, uncomplaining, trembling,
her eyes weeping milk. She nuzzled me
and mewed once, like a kitten
disappearing in a river;
now she's gone,
and the morning has gone with her.