He did not mean to catch her fingers in the bathroom door.
It was boyish vigor. Flash mistake. Something more.
I’ve seen it, tried to not see it before, the thrill in him when she cries.
Rook callousness, a cruel shaft. I cringe. I wish its black wings gone.
I want to kiss his forehead, smooth his hair, as if with mother touch
I could unhinge each landing place in him where malice curls its talons.
As if. As if I didn’t have it, too, shoved down as far as I can leash.
Clever jackdaw. Murder of one. Passed on. Passed on. Empty lash.
Flutter. Spasm. Passerine flaw. Comber of carrion. Caw. Caw.