Black Birds Fly

Lindsay Kulla

Stage mister, I know I’m good.

That smooth brass singing the way I was—

I could want to be a saxophone

and kiss the man who could make me wail like that.

And be even.

And be even.

And even.

And run through the uneven halls

with my livid palms banging the sterile walls.

Look at me.

I’m running again after the face of glory

Who took off

with my happiness.