A Falcons Forgotten Mayday

There was something about the way she wore a

black Marlboro and gray remorse as a uniform.

I would have hit her too—

Her hair is rotting road kill—delusive, disowned, and

dissolved. There’s no clock because time is a

dirty, city drifter. I would love her differently if she

wasn’t my father’s sister. There’s a peeling, brown

leather chair in the corner—the apartment air is as thick

as the book of her mistakes. A fly hovers her head.

How could she be so selfish?

Alcohol is in her bloodstream like a retired man

sits in a hot tub. There’s a leased car key in her pocket.

I can see every bone—they’re yellow like her teeth.

She tells me she has a third interview as her son slams the

door in revolt. I sip my water like its common sense

and this place is squeezing me dry. She’s crying.

There’s not a five dollar bill to her name.

How can you pity the ones who never learned?

At 19, I’m a robin and she’s a 42 year old nestling—

not yet ready to care for herself.

I hold her hand and she tenses at the police lights.

Don’t give up—

“I have run. I have crawled. I have scaled these city walls…

but I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.”