She swallows feathers to learn the right words,
knowing wrong phrases make for pregnant
silence.

He climbs through sky,
his tumbling shades of indigo poised
between sun and earth.

With the blush of primal flight, she can
almost leave the ground,
but her toes are roots of brown and gray.

He speaks in cold rainbows, bright
braids of color tying her into place.
She’s not understanding the pigments.

She chokes, unable to digest
the hues he possesses.

Downy leftovers float past her olive hair
her breasts,
her hands,
her navel.

They caress and tease her,
brushing wooden ankles,
scattering back to the sky.