High Maintenance · Amy Pence

I warned you about
me: touching
my wings, you did not
at first
find me difficult.
I was soft
timbre in your
bones: I was breath
and broke open
pleasantly in your mouth

That’s what spirit
does Then, eventually
my fear: the kidskin
feel my wings
ribbed, abrupt unfurling
a Harley Davidson jacket

errant and rubbing wounded, edges
rubbed It always goes
deeper the best things
anyway Like

prayer: so lovely, so rapacious so asking so
desperate so sated so netted so intricate so
tiring so immediate so lasting so ponderous so
lit like winged gold silvered and rubbed between
your palms.