I am eagle; don't be fooled by red silk 
heels that sound so much like clanking clay 
on hardwood floors where you and I one night 
did lay when there was no heat left 
to warm a chilling breast, 
when your dense chest fell wet on mine. 
I found a feather when you left, 
it lay upon a pillow drenched in you. 
Perhaps it was inside. It matters not, 
as I have since then eaten it 
and cannot prove to you that 
it did, in fact, exist. 

Before I'd ever heard your name 
or pictured how you might have looked, 
before I'd seen your constant face -- 
the one that waits inside dark eyes 
to see if I can truly fly, or if instead 
you might just plant my pinioned feet 
into your waxy wood-grained floorboards, 
making plumage turn to twigs that dangle 
down a perfect fruit which you could pluck 
from your soft bed while I grew old and weary 
(but I was eagle; I grew light and wild) -- 
long before I'd brushed your flesh, these wings 
had taken me to heights much higher than those red 
silk shoes, those platforms to your dreamworld.