In deep of black to be a glass of cream.
A crow in steep, in claw of night. And she
is shark, or sweetest bread. Her armor breaks
at slope of neck. Is this the place you kiss
her? She becomes mustang, a gulp or gust
of inky birds. The wisp is quick—her back:
it blinks, is gone. Her shadow flings the bats
at pictures of skin. Your face is not the sleep
she wants. The big mistake is what you gave
her when you left. A box of onions. Blue
as wettest rain. Some kitchen matches. Hurt
on tip of flint. Forgiveness isn’t what
she has for you. In honeycomb, the witch-
ing hour is back. Begins at setting sun.
Sara Ryan is a first-year poetry MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University and an associate editor of poetry for Passages North. Her poetry has been published in Boxcar Poetry Journal, Bear Review, Jai-Alai Magazine, The Boiler Journal and various anthologies, and is also forthcoming in Crab Fat Magazine and Storm Cellar.