Aerie

We think wings

mean a way of being over, being done.

Yet, there it is: fat slap

of our flapping.

I understood the whinging direction,

wingtip to gravity.  The pull, pull down.

Which way? I asked, which way

to the knock-kneed, the heavy heart?

My parents were careening,

useless. Guide bars to want.

Tethered, my sisters were nostalgic

novels no one reads.

To be rid of my body,

I made the want uniform.

Fitting, I took the swing,

the grasp. 

I understand to fly is to be reduced.

I keep a hand on, a hand out.