She lands in front of my car—
I swear she looks at me and dares
me to run her over. I brake
and she blinks—both of us waiting
for the other to move first.
To do something—
anything.
I inch forward
and she shrugs her wings,
knowing I won’t do it
or not caring—
And I get it.
I get wanting someone else
to make the choice for you—
being too tired to move
out of the way—I know
the heaviness
of a body.
I, too, imagine easing out
of flattened limbs—being the dust
that spirals from cracked bones.
Instead she slinks
to the side, enough
to steady her body forward,
wings too weak to fly.