Bats

Sydney Hastings

A cauldron,
summoned by the full moon.
Cooing in riots
when Mother Sun goes down.

This is our colony,

thicker than the laughter we spit

Fluid in the back seat,

all in my feels.

I sit in your lap.

We are two lost puzzle pieces,

found in our bondage.

Tonight’s head leader drives away

and as we cough into midnight,
we leave a trail of breadcrumbs
for our memory to catch up with us again

someday.