When you took
me, you took the sheerest
space of all, the one reserved
for nestling hesitations prior to flight
Now wind blows
through — rattling my bones like abacus
Instead of the sum-sounds of this place — calculations
irritating and incessant as a flock of dying
iridescent flies — I long
for theatres of divinity where colored light

and flightful words could incubate the crystals

of my cold, bright, analyzing mind

Left lampshade-thin, I grew enunciated,
strove to love-by-number while

your outraged phantom

stared, as editorial as ever,
sear-eyed still, as in the dark

room where you doused

the bared, small, avian girl

in silver moonlight—

graven made
So how
should I reflect

me now — the skin case rumpling,

bones like tusks flung pell-mell
when the poacher fled,

the head a clack of mystery — ? Is someone


who would configure
what I might have gone on being
had you failed to make
me count,

to summon me?

Gail Taylor
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