i sing of wings and a woman, & i cross
the threshold. the sky becomes him
& though in this version i am in
him & not he in me, i am screaming,
i am scream itself, diaphragm, single hip.
i trust no one & no one trusts me.
this song sings only my own savage unforgetting
& unforgiving & anger, only my own stomach.
when i thrust in my dreams it is with sword. when i thrust
in my sleep the face of the stabbed is never the man
himself, but his brother, the birdwatcher, the pulled teeth.
when i imagine the thrush i imagine also the purr
asking her to let go, imagine her gripping. i am
gripping. when faceless men move towards me
i see prowling, screaming, single hip. i sing of wrapping
my discomfort into my wings & holding tightly, tighter
than i imagine him imagining me, & i never cross
the threshold, & i trust myself & do not let go.
when the cat tells me he expects
me to rush my discomfort into the wind,
i say no & the sound that emerges is song.
after so many teeth in my relatives,
a feral cat looks like a house pet. i know
from flying into windows that even house pets
can turn feral. by the time i can tell
the difference i am dead, & i trust the dark
more than any man & let go.
Courtney Felle is a sophomore at Kenyon College. Her writing currently focuses on the landscape of queerness, illness, and gender, & can be found in Rag Queen Periodical, Chautauqua Literary Journal, & Brain Mill Press, among others. In addition to writing, she edits Body Without Organs Literary Journal & campaigns for congressional candidates.