Grounded Phoenix

Hot-weathered     I walk the muggy streets

claxons     dig     my golden wrinkles

I peck falafel     a mochi ice cream     feathers

in my stream of consciousness     sellers gawk

under the awnings     I buy for myself

what I don’t need     massage balls

and a play ticket     for an emotional evening

to distract     from horizonless smoke

I’m looking after    myself these too straight streets    want

to touch     as if the city     were my parent     raises me to

a harvest of grief      seizes the season

yaws around my ankles      I can’t cope with the heat

if nothing like a bird    I disappoint      doomed

to repeat myself      my eggs

a mystery      blanked     no birth

no God      messing      my DNA

My body needs      a fable of belonging

I can be allowed      to live     almost     perfect

tripping     on the buzz     until the shops

refill with museum pieces      and the opera sells out

see the sky clear      its water    sun pausing

to listen      I want to clap     my curse

but then my wings     refer to red

suffocate      is it too far     to rise above

Jacqueline Schaalje has published poetry and short fiction, most recently in Five South, Wildfire Words, and The Ocotillo Review. She won the 2022 Florida Review Editor’s Prize and has been a finalist in a few other competitions. She is a translation editor at MAYDAY Magazine.