the wings of a plane overhead
intersect perfectly with the back
of an eagle perched
on a gravestone.
It looks exactly like those
bee-shaped spacecrafts that
ancient astronaut theorists believe,
aliens used to come to earth.
No one knows anything:
the eagle tends to its talons,
getting startled
by the tiny chirping of sparrows,
and I’m wondering
whether I’m allowed
to sit on the stone steps that lead
to the pretty graves.
does it matter,
when everything matters?
everything – matter
headstone grass melts into
watery evening, refracts
pixelated patches of lichen
on scrambled weeping angels bowing
to unrendered plastic flowers,
as jewelled starlings warp
to form the skyline, begging
to burst into light.
Ale was born upside-down, with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck, in a small town in Ontario, Canada. She resolves her clearly tenuous attachment to existence by writing whenever she can. She currently lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, and you can find her work in Amberflora, The Selkie, and others.
Instagram: @churchofmidnight
Twitter: @fluoxe_queen