Callista Buchen


Here are the wings we imagine, women, printed in blood, muscle. Lush, our wish for what beats to transform rather than diminish. We say memory is not a ghost but a cityscape. Maybe it rains, maybe it even floods, feathers everywhere. The ground too soft, we map the whole town from above.

We require distance. The rebuilding effort, they say, it takes time. We lilt, we turn, we don’t wait for the weather. Here we are, woman: so red no one can see us, our low moans, our bellows, beyond these bodies, these machines. Peace. We could be burned, burning, what is sacrificed. We decide to go: ash and all, our shadows too fast for the broken city below.