Daniel Moore

His job, he said, was to follow me closely
the way a cat in the frozen field

stalks the shadow of shivering breaths
measuring hunger in victim time

as fear changes contentment’s eyes
from a hue of blue to unspeakable black

and claws strip tomorrow’s fur
off yesterday’s brittle bones.

From a nest woven tight as a drag queen’s wig
the sky was seduced by a feminine hymn,

a raptor’s alleluia. The holy wet his pants,
and still I was followed closely.

In the stalker’s gospel of stumble and save
he watched me fall then raised me up

from the tip of the world as the runway roared
and angels applauded me bloody.