she sits on the floor back to the wall hands folded on her
lap for hours our talk has entered the space in her guest
room and lighted on the old dresser the bed our heads and
shoulders our words the hollow-boned birds of summer no
longer frantic for food for babies or worried for fear they
won't fly but flying out for joy
she tells me of the day she sprouted angel wings how she
always knew she could fly and this knowledge she has given
me feels much heavier than the angel wings must feel and i
tell her or maybe only wish i had that i always knew she
could fly and i saw her wings rather felt them fanning me
the day she walked into my hospital room after they had
carved a piece out of my mouth
and were feeding me through a tube even so i could still
taste the bits of my flesh before i swallowed them and
now i want to apologize for bringing my flesh into this
so i will sorry but that's what makes the knowledge of
your wings so much heavier than the wings themselves