FLIGHT FEATHERS, VESTIGIAL


In the midst of the argument,
she called me a snowy egret,
so that was that.
I’m not above studying myself
in the bathroom mirror,
conceding the occasional
pale spot in the beard,
a particularly headstrong
case of weekend bedhead,
a certain angularity of opinion
and a tendency to stare
into horizons during conversation,
into updrafts, Caribbean
blue arcs, into the sounds
of long vowels, salamanders.
She said she said asshole,
not snowy egret,
so that was that.