By Jennifer Pratt-Walter
she is a small bird caught
between the pages of a
nocturnal monotint album
tasting midnight in the rain
rivering her obsidian wings
her avian witchery
is not enough
in playing He loves me
He loves me not
using her feathers
instead of a flower
first the wings
grounding her like a flightless
mammal
He loves me not her body’s oracle
says so far she starts dismantling
her sleek breast silver with beauty
she knows already
how the game will end
feather by feather
He loves me not