Night is a shell we were half out of--
its edge an obstacle at eye level.
We only saw each other's soft side
in those days when the jagged break seemed benign,
like a string of crescent moons made of party paper.
We didn't know we were already growing flight feathers
and talons as large as grizzly claws.
Honey, we were sheathed in the things that killers are made from,
seasoned with the urge to fly or fall,
and of course,
an instinct to claim and use them.