I’ve caged

this bird again,

my tongue prone

to whip,

lick the rust

of our exchange.

The moon phases

have morphed our

conversations,

swordplay replaced

with prosaic hush.

I don’t know the

meaning of such

stillness, this

stolen song now the

gag of morning.

I’m frightened,

overly protective of

your annoyance,

rendering astute

reveries and

scrambled fantasies

of our bed once

veered like a

cloud-canopied mast.

Go on, say it—

bite the cigar,

ride like a

feathered monstrosity.

Trust in the

burrowed gavel

behind your lips.

Maya is a multi-published poet and the Assistant Director of Neumann University’s Writing Center. She received her bachelor’s degree at Saint Joseph’s University where she also served as Editor-in-Chief of the literary magazine titled, Crimson & Gray. More recently, her work is featured in the Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, The Ignatian Literary Magazine, Quibble Lit, and Clepsydra Literary and Art Magazine, among others.