Low on daylight and cash,
lower on trust, she is a relic
of her own wretched history.
Like phases of the moon
sometimes she disappears,
comes blazing back—
she’s her own total eclipse.
Hides under a streetlight,
hides under the stairs,
casts no shadow,
makes no sound.
Always a good girl.
She bargains with demons,
hotwires cars,
gambles on charm.
Rolls triple Jacks,
taps out with twenty-two,
drinks free, tips shitty,
gets lost in the sound of the waves,
the profiles of shadows.
she’ll come back when she wants.
She’s a barn owl, a feral cat,
a coyote, she’s a beast.
She stalks the seasons in darkness,
drifts in the ether of memory.
She sings with birds, howls with forest winds
but under the stairs…not a whisper.