Naked except for a hibiscus bloom in its hair, it danced upon a pile of old tires burning behind the strip mall.
"A signal fire," it said.
The smoke became blackbirds, their beaks a collective compass needle.
The poem was itself a flock.
Looking up, I said, "Curiosity killed the cat.
Satisfaction brought her back."
That was the last I saw of the poem,
but its hibiscus bloom hangs from a chain I wear on my wrist
like a false hand
with a true ring
in lambent light that doesn't show the blood.
_______
for Skylover Word List.
