Silhouette

Nightwing, you live in coffins
by day, a mortuary scribe
writing ads for guilt
abstract as leached bone,
with words like “perpetual,”
“always,” and “everlasting,”
words too mineral
to risk whole with a lover.
To feed your art,
you sell bereavement and brass.
But by night, you fly.
Blood draws you out.
Your luxuriant fur glistens
in moonlight, as you steal women’s souls.
Earthbound, they come
to sup with you in mid-air,
to guide by the stars,
to give up reflection,
to learn to travel light,
as you roam the quiet spirals
of the world, squashing blossoms
against their pale necks.

Tonight, the air’s a cool, slick whisper
to be flown, a benediction
of damp. Nothing is at stake.
But all my pelts are twitching tight.
Already, moths are beating
in my veins. Love, come drive
your purple fangs in deep,
and jolt me from my flesh tonight,
let me earn my wings.