by Anna Madden
The moon is fat with silver the night men attack with metal teeth held in their hands.
The stars are holes punched out of a black sky, arrows pouring down. I flee the torrent, the biting sticks like burrs between keeled scales. The air tastes of salt and danger.
The nest is lost, but your egg is safe. I carry it within my maw.
I fear you’ll be born a fool, like me. A mooncalf hatchling, or a shining new dawn? There are so few safe places left. Our world dies one wingbeat at a time, but still, I fly.
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