Strike. Die. Kill. Fly. Poem by Charles Malcolm

Her body was half
shrouded in darkness,
dancing in place
on the halo's
concrete edge.
Too far from home
and the sun too low
for her own reflection
to have left her like this.
She seemed crippled most
by broken mirrors
and Macbeth.

She sang
with false bravery
as I crept up
and pressured her
to come
home.
High pitched numbers
between sheets
of old newspaper
and true harmonies
as I knelt down and proved
that she finally was.

It only took two nights.
She seems better
and I kept the newspaper.