Married
// Michaela Cowgill
A bird flies above the blue blacktop,
all feathers and nervous beak without teeth.
I watch its shadow as it falls and slides
across painted parking spaces.
Who told me that there’s something
honest about a shadow?
I remember you, in your blue sheets,
in the house on Western. Lighting
a candle. Our shadows moving
like boats across the white wall;
my shoulders about to bloom wings.