My Life as a Bird
My chest a keel, I hold, not armored
but winged, and, for speed, shed the bones
I don’t need, and hollow the rest,
the heavy, pale marrow.
Air’s the sea of transport
whose current some fight like the drowning;
best let air mind the ratios,
the lift to drag as I turn.
Readying me, wind slits the walls
of my wings like the slats of window blinds;
wind breaks me open, running through feather,
the curve of my shoulder.
In one downward flap, I’m off, lifting,
grabbing the air; you’ll know me by
my downward pull, as I close to the wind,
make myself whole again
in the swift down stroke, and the lift off.