Flight

Sheila once begged me to dare her
to take a smoldering
cigarette and grind it
into her open palm.
She begged me to dare her
to conjure pain
with a flourish,
a magician's white dove,
wings clipped of flight.

In a world
of something-up-the-sleeve,
pain was the only
clean-edged thing she knew.
 

© Jenniffer Lesh