The Eden-Limbed Girl
Night shrugs down across the city.
An “Oh well, never mind” of darkness.
“Give it another go tomorrow, perhaps.”
The Eden-limbed girl slouches
over the bridge out of town
against the flow of Friday night
students and sharp-slap laughter.
The wind is battering, in her face.
Her shoulders take the forever rain.
Accepting as broken angel-blades.
She doesn’t know. Too tired to care.
Doesn’t believe in angels waking
or anything much else, come to that.
The bridge bounces weird
beneath her boots. Pushing her
feet into the next step and on.
Lights blink orange on the river.
Do they see her? Will they drown?
Soon she’s over. Over and gone.
In November she seldom recalls
her journey home. It’s auto-pilot,
the same as her fluoro-lit days.
She flexes her legs, her wrists,
cracks her swanny-snap neck.
Doesn’t know her own strength.