She has waited for this

by Elizabeth Gibson

At night, when the deer run on the old railway bridge,
she steps out of the bedroom mirror, shakes out shards,
straddles the window ledge, feels no cold
against blood-red brick.

She jumps like she thought she would all those nights
she planned for fire, but instead of rolling over and over,
she lands like a cat, stands, palms criss-crossed
with their rivers, dried,

all of her dry now and so warm, and she snake-slips
around the gate, knowing no alarms will scream,
no men will grab. It really is like they said
it would be, years ago.

She dances in the crook of the road, tangles herself
in the scrub on the corner, blue-purple buddleia
flaking in her fist, falling like a spell
over her valleys of body.

The city opens for her, says, do whatever you need,
and she is zooming towards it, faster and faster,
the one light in that tower, she remembers,
and the bats by the river –

she always waited for them to return after the winter,
and now here they all are, squeaking so happily
that the air trembles, like it could split any time,
and you could step through.