I won’t get off
she tells him
until it’s wide open.
He stands
on the foot
of the bed.
He pushes it so far
he almost feels
he’ll jump.
Air bowls
in like a child’s
drawing. The arrogant
sun flicks off
a bottomless
night; birds
begin to kick
up their heads
voice overlaying
voice, a cross
-hatched sketch
emerging in her dream
percussioned
by the dented
grumble of his snores.
Opposite the open space
between her seclusion
and the sky, she knows
that they will enter.
Recalling the pigeon
on the filing cabinet
that day when she opened
the office door,
vindictiveness ringing
its orange eye
she picture the flocks
around the bed
their wings;
their beaks;
the triassic leather
of their ankles and toes.
The more she reasons with herself,
the louder their voices
and closer they puff.
Pushing her head
up through the earth’s surface
she finds she has driven
both feet
through the sheet.