Edisonia: lures, or, having deciding birds could fly because they ate worms, punishment.

How she used to look when she’d come out
onto the big stoop
of the house and call Alva!

That particular morning. The sound of switch
on flesh, Aedison’s bitter cries drift
down, licks of soft ash
from second-story banishment.

(The girl, having drank storm/clouds
of mashed-up worms & water, her thin arms
at her side, sweating,
emptying
her belly on Aedison’s boots.)

The adamant undone gleam
of dark eyes, cheeks’ flush as she leans
into the morning’s advancing light
& quietly asks if I want
my lunch.

(Pie.)

(Not having to shine
the boots.)