RogueAgent

The letter would go something like this:
I am happier now, bigger
in my body. Canary screaming

into the dawn as it cracks,
to no audience except for
everything, of which I am part.

A dissonant chord rips so freely
from my throat, clangs so prettily
against all the other living things

now that I have something to say. I have to say
that I am untethered, seeing angels as ghosts
and sacraments for the contracts that they were.

I can see it all from on high.
My voice sounds so newborn claiming
anointment by whatever holy thing still lives.

The letter would go something like that
if I wrote it, but I don’t share these things
with you: my soft, my permeable, my feathery insides.

I am getting along, I say instead,
doing alright, I am still going
to church, I am still going

to be your daughter, if we can
keep pretending. I am going
to be your daughter, no matter

how it splinters.

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