Call it a Flock

the thrill of a thousand doves 

all flying up at once. your

hands around my throat. is this

sin or singularity: the red of blood

on a white, white wing. your rage, 

licked away, clean as a dinner 

plate so when i look down i see

half bruise, half reflection. i miss

you. i dread you. sometimes i am you, 

it seems, only i’ve never been 

able to land.