by Emily O’Neill
There was an onion browning where my heart should’ve
been, stir-fried into breakfast. A boy who baked
pies, a bottle of whiskey I finished
in a single sit. I over-salted the soup,
faced a ruined summer. But—gracious
hesitation reverse thrust—costume change
from bow-legged fawn to winged singer.
Walk home from the city line
with knife pressed to my bare thigh:
the dark to eat me fiercely,
butterzone drunk, grinning,
my glowing teeth
But: gifted grace.
I sing sorrow turned
syrup, skinny dip in the chilly Atlantic, drink
tallboys, dance with the bouncer. Flounder. Broken
skin knits together without itch. Scab
flakes off my sudden feathers.