the city kept us lean and furious, like starving dogs,
and we were always looking to the left and right
and over our shoulders, to see if the walls were
           
closing in, to see if a steel girder was stooping
like a falcon to bury rebar into our
spines and reel us into a cabled maw.
           
we would run through the day until twilight
bled rich purple into the skyline smog.
we ducked whiptails of live wire, shearing
           
teeth of broken concrete. jewel-bright lights
that moved in a hateful whirl, that pinioned and tore.
the city hated us but it didn’t want to eradicate us,
           
only to rip bites out of us, excavating us to break
new ground. it burned our blood like diesel fuel, folded
us up into itself as though it intended to save us for later.
           
we loved birthdays. each year was time wrested from
the city’s vicious ribs. under the awnings, in the
skyscraper shadows, we crowded together and
           
sang. we made our voices a wind through
river reeds. we made our voices
camouflage like the silver light that
           
cloaks a school of fish. the city hooked a claw
through our ranks and came up empty. we scattered
and ran, reformed and ran. we were a
           
starling flock dodging its endless sinkholes
and the hulks of its machinery. we wormed
free of another grasp, lived to sing another day.
           
chrome sprang up as far as the eye could see.
we ran and sang. in the steel forest we bided our time.
prey that survives finds the opening to bite back.

© 2024 Natasha King