The Raptor

by Khalilah Okeke

flavoured water

He is on the prowl and will find her. He always does.

The forest growls - Alessandra, Alessandra - as he hunts through skeletal branches bent helpless in 

barring his glide. He soars beyond the needled canopies of evergreens into silver-crests of sky. 

The raptor returns from his vanish in the clouds and perches on a snag; his throne towering above the 

sealine. He watches the drifters on the strand. Their bound spirits escaping like hurling stones from the 

devil’s hot-throat. Eyes crawling toward nothing. 

Alessandra is among them. He licks the smell of her pulse on the wind’s hand and follows her, a bonfire 

blazes between them. She frolics with a man to the beat of palms pounding on goat-skin covered drums, their hips slither in rhythm. 

With an acrobatic swoop the raptor slips into the man like a phantom creeping through a bedroom 

window. He claws through his veins, talons climbing and nesting behind empty eyes. 

The raptor,  now the man; pulls Alessandra’s body close, his rushing desire rising. Alessandra snakes away into the 

ocean, abandoning the raptor on the sand.The blood red moon so close you can taste it. Her tangle of hair 

floating in the glass-covered sea.

Angel Feathers

by Khalilah Okeke

vermouth

She drifted through the stone silent house. She was ready to be home. The moon watched through a bay window, its silvery brilliance splashed on the shadows. Valentina heard Francesco stir in his sleep, she moved toward him, far-off whipping waves drummed in her ears, the ivory train of her dress swept the terracotta tiles as she sailed down the hall.

She caught him, hot beneath the sheets, legs entangled with the tan sculpted thighs of a woman. Their peaceful profiles rested on her pillows.

Valentina’s pierced glare roused Francesco from his slumber. She mounted his lap her breath steamed like fog. “Am I hallucinating?” he whispered. He jabbed his elbow into the dreaming woman’s ribs, “Wake up.” Her drowsy eyes shuddered. She screamed and leapt from the bed, flesh bouncing as she bolted for the door. The scent of their lust trailed behind her.

“Valentina, is that you?” He regarded her lead-white skin, her hair tightly-pinned head crowned with a garland of black blood dahlias. Valentina spread her powerful white wings and overshadowed the room. She flapped them violently; the house quaked, picture frames shattered in crystal shards. Valentina wailed, spewing ash as she howled - burying his body beneath it. Francesco sat up on his forearms and struggled to wipe the soot from his eyes. He stared into hers. They still enchanted him like the African violets from her garden. Petals misted in rain.

“They couldn’t save you both,” he yelled. “I couldn’t let him die!”

“Was it ever love?” she muttered.

“Please,” he begged. “You’ll wake the baby.”

The baby’s soft utter drew Valentina’s attention. She flew over to her son lying in the wicker basket. He was swaddled in a muslin cloth, gazing out the glass-pane at blazing stars. She fluttered above him and raised a shushing finger to her mouth. Music slipped from her lips in sacred vibrations - her son grasped at their swirls of light. She sang until he fell asleep then turned her back and disappeared into the darkness.

Francesco awoke in the morning, the dreaming woman’s side of the bed ice-cold. He slunk onto the floor. “Emmanuel,” he said, into the quiet. There was nothing left but a woven casket. A feather settled in his place.