I see an eagle in this Oregon tree. A dancing shy beauty. She may decide to be my muse. It’s better than poppers or Quaaludes or cement. I reach up to catch her. Admiring her shining bald head. I fly with her. Landing in a mindless dream. It’s there she’ll taunt my vanity with her wings spread wide, staring at me, watching the nightmare girl fly over trains and trash and guns. Im needing this muse. So I can share old stories. Of needing help. Of scars. Of New York streets. Of the time I used my teeth to break into the donut shop so I could have my fill. Or distracted the boy with a promise of tattoos while my dog lifted his wallet. Or when I used tight jeans to squeeze out of my check. I’m needing to get high. In Central Park, in hotel rooms, on roof tops. Then I can look down with reason. See him pretending to like wood while staring at cracks. Or observe computers blazing at night. Spot the elk before steaming him out of sight. I and the eagle are sisters after all. Dancing to the steps my mother taught us. Living shy behind soaring feathers. Swooping down towards the beauty of farmers backs planting seeds. Landing in dirt before we catch the hunters eye. Dreaming for no reason other than the joy of a mindless act. Staying together through our choice. Loyalty is for rats in Central Park. Loyalty is a spear gun at Smilers. Loyalty is drinks, black beauties and bars. Loyalty is dancing at 54. The ground has grown out of sight. I’m way too high now. This happened once before when I was pregnant. I almost didn’t come back. But he was my coyote and we had a deal. The magic is still there. He prances. I beam lights. He jokes. I wake the owls. He touches me and I’m landlocked. It’s magic. We created it. It could go away. I know it. In a flash. Faster than downing a shot. It happened once before. Me flying out the window. Landing with a splat. Then run over by a truck. It was no fun. I thought I was going to pass out. The hours tear at my beak, deformed within minutes, falling like ashes, blowing out candles, reciting poetry, minus the howl, wanting to open but not without my wings.
The Collective Underground