Philomela

In flight, but hardly
swift enough …
Her limbs splayed,
bruisings to the marrow.
As if in afterthought
he cuts her tongue —
this man of flesh,
this man of blood.
Days pass — shadows
flickering on a wall —
and then it comes:
the healing magic
she has waited for,
called in lost words for …
It has come — too late,
as it always does —
bringing transformation
to the defeated one.
So now she rises on wings,
feels — almost — peace,
then hears the song — her own,
that she could never sing —
and, yes, is reconciled:
in the song, free,
and in flight, always
swift enough.