I find myself craving wings



not the chicken kind, real ones growing
out of my shoulder muscles, ones that

flex and open white and pink, that take me
up and out for a while, just enough

to escape for a moment. Of course
if I really had wings, the government

would be up in arms calling me a UFO
trying to catch me with their drones

and helicopters in hot pursuit.
If I tried to hide in a cloudbank they’d follow

using their heat-seeking missiles and
finally shoot me down. Someone might say

I know this woman, she wrote poetry.
We didn’t know she had wings.
 

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