by Connor Rodenbeck
He has become cardinal skin under a pool of water
arms pinioned but thrashing and
his wings are latched onto the inside of his
cheeks so he unfolds his lips wide and lets sunlight and
water plunge into his esophagus
swallows it like air and
the chlorine attaches itself to his rust walls
filling him until currents stream from his nostrils and eyes
chest puffing with the dark burn of water and
his skin and the pool converge into
a convective uplift into a whirlpool and
he spins underneath the surface with a tilted head
extends his wet arms like they are bird bones and
flaps into the sun-dried air like he was born to do it
like his limbs are sanguine and his stomach pulses helium and
his feet don’t touch the ground
don’t leave footprints on the grid of tiles and
there are only feathers and loose coos here
whistles like splashes in a devotedly blue atmosphere
subtle flight paths textured with the rushed red of paillettes on a dress.
Connor Rodenbeck is a second-year student at the University of Denver studying English with a concentration in Creative Writing and Psychology. He likes binge-watching TV shows, thrift shopping, and spending time with his friends and family.
