No one notices my wings—folded, hollow-
boned. Across the room a girl slurps
red sauce from her fingers, and I fill
with the scent. Its thick molasses
marrows up my carpus, my
metacarpus. This is

why I come here. To remind myself
I was once alive. To weigh myself down,
down to the wishbone that almost
breaks when I remember
how the world tasted—summer rain
on my neck that rolled off,
off like the hour. Or the old house
with its broom closet door—the oak grain
pencil-marked with girl-heights. Once
my sister and I were small enough

to slow down time. We climbed
the cedars on each side of the yard. Scent
peeled from them in strips. Once we
crawled up the swing set's ladders and lay
across its top rungs at dusk. We watched
for long-eared bats, hoped to get bitten
by vampires and changed, until
the flank steak flamed and smoke
moved through the kitchen window,
until the voice

of our mother called us back. The rack
of ribs arrives at my table. I raise
its flesh to my mouth. I'm allowed this
bite before my wing-bones empty,
before I rise, red-lipped, a vinegar
sting in each corner of my mouth.