• Vol. 03
  • Chapter 03
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Bird Boy

We are winged for the asking, in comedy,
in serious play, flapping our featherless
elbows and wrists above the waterline.

Birds dive, and swim the air, lifting
our eyes to the milky horizon, a skein
draws its line over stippled hues.

We behold, and feel our bones go hollow.
We see ourselves in the warped reflection,
poised to glide, to swoop, to wheel an arc.

We will dance on the docks, taunting the water.
Let others bathe, and preen, and gather seed.
We will pray for wings with two hands apart.

"But did he ever jump?" the bookkeepers ask.
The water keeps no record after the splash.
The sky, too, has emptied out its pockets.

Be here with me, Bird Boy posed for takeoff.
Smoulder with ignition, ready to jump.
Burn your ashen shapes against the dusk.