Somersault Precedes Transformation

Chorihani, witch-bird, what do you tend?
You bend air and bounce light, a black winged
speck like holes in acoustic ceiling tile.
Come down, you reeling wren. No somersaults,
or I will send every ounce of your
feathered head into that pot by the shed.
You must lend me song until this leg mends.
Where are my cigarettes...what’s this? You say
you found a crutch left on the steps of Saint

Nicholas? Go fetch your friends, little wren,
fetch my crutch. I will pay you, pay the way
Manet painted la Carmencita, mi
abuela of many greats, cigarette
girl from Spain. You can not see her broken
leg in the frame, only the horse who threw
her when the train screamed by. She warned, Beware
the winter wren, for you among us all
retained your shape when the fluff of our wings

crusted and thickened to glue, when the grass
thinned and the wheat dried, when the worms crawled deep
and we shaved the grain from the blade, gathered
it in heaps, these arms nothing but stilted
wings. But you, light, weighed down by no grain, stayed.
I know your secret. Do your spin through this
smoke, bid me watch your jewels your floating skirts,
let me hear the castanets, silver clink
on gold, thud on thigh on ankle. Let me

watch you swirl, your body curl—charm-covered
bangle clanks bead to rib to bead, silk swish
over calf, over neck, the wrist flick whips
jasmine as you beckon and roll, your hair
wound high, locks curled tight, the spin and dip fanned
out, jewels bright lit. Say talk to my flare, my
cyclonic pearl—and cresting crash at my
feet. Salome-wren bend my ear to your
lips, say Grant it and I will say Go flip.