She woke with wings
never-feathered, but iridescent,
translucent and quivering in dawn.
Her hunger was vibrating, vampiric. She craved
blood to drip through each Cheerio’s belly
before sucking them through her spoon.
Her mother dropped her coffee
and screamed at her daughter
hovering in front of the fridge.
Shoo shoo shoo,
shoo shoo shoo shoo!
back to her room.
Later her brain would buzz with question marks
about the shape of growing up, growing down,
she needed to know
how to tell your own wings that you love them
shimmer-shaking as they percuss against your mother’s skin,
your proboscis digging, swallowing.
Megan Mary Moore is the author of Dwellers (Unsolicited Press, 2019). Her poetry has appeared in Rattle, Drunk Monkeys, and Black Coffee Review. She lives in Cincinnati where she teaches dance and talks to ghosts.