I’ve been this side of my window
all year, marking time—have
you grown up yet?—watching leaves
change, cliches, the seasons
do what they do, and I’ve aged well
beyond twenty-eight, pirated
by the weight of waiting all this
out. The ticking in my belly
thickens like the beating beetle
announcing the witch’s death,
pricking my eyes wet, hair grey,
a second wrinkle to the right
of my temple. I’ve been fingering
thimbles, rummaging drawers, begging
the cornered dust in my room
to take me to you, but my thoughts
pin me to the floor, dagger to board,
stranded—have you grown up
yet? You swore, hand to Wendy, but
the sill stays empty, ears pricked,
heavy, waiting for the never-
landing of your feet. Best liar
who ever made me believe the
inevitable angel thief would pass
over me, safe from the slaying,
aging. But the plague came while
I was waiting for you.