print previewback JACOB BOYD
Eight Million in Cash from Armored Cars
Two young thieves, spent
yet not willing, not yet,
to sleep: she casts her heel
around his calf, her hair—
dyed bright magenta—
stains his pimply, sallow skin.
They share each other’s breath
a second more, and then,
like that, she’s turning
to the wall, the black wings
inked across her shoulders
lift, stitched open.
Outside, a whistling.
A nightjar sings its whip-
lash ballad, over and over
in that fern-dark valley;
it smothers the whispering
footsteps of agents,
muffles the vague disturbance
of leaves, and retreats.
What binds me to her,
our thief falling asleep
above the trailer’s back axle,
is more than merely desire
in remission, limbs gone slack
with satisfaction; it’s that
this is what she wanted:
to rise from certain obscurity
into the air of consequence,
to skim the world’s lush
surface at will, dreaming
even as they’re closing in. 
