Father says I will recognise it when it hits us—

Of course, I don’t understand. The roads are

winding and I am only a girl. This is how

I memorise light: it comes without warning.

I am eight and blinded by a supernatural

glare, a conic mirror above us. Our windshield

explodes, little prisms of glass shattered on the

highway in a zigzag line. Line of trucks behind

overtake collide corrode; even in this episode,

Father is still speaking: Look. This is how the bird dies.

We are the same, leaping into luster. Why do we keep

going despite our kin crashing? We see beauty and claim

it our nest. The men of Jatinga walk with axes, their

torches ablaze & primed. Wings on fire, eyes, spine, beak

failing the bird. Light touches her everywhere. Her body–

mine–heating, burning. What do men with axes know

about flight? They pick their prey gently, feed on fear.

Father says it is only a dream and, therefore, cannot hurt.

What does father know about us: danger sewn

on our wings? When it ends, I wake up a girl again.