Phoenix, Bird of Paradise

You turn your back to the grass
that's just burst into flame.

Your lover drives away
in a Honda Civic, rattling.

You stand in the dining room
behind red curtains and those egg shells-
maybe the way they feel in your hand-

bewitch you. You remove every stitch
of nail and hair, take down eyelashes,
unwrap your shoulder blades
and rise tall and splayed by the window.

And
you're so foolish.
You pick up the skin of your hand
and quickly slip it back on,
turn and touch those
jutting shoulder blades-
now hollowed blue with cold.

 Emily Wall