With Feathers After Emily | progenitor2016

There at the window, if the light is right,
I can see the dusty silhouette of wingspan on glass.

So many birds believed this was not sky’s end— this place where

I peer out floor-to-ceiling pane, turn Charlie Parker over again.

When we built this house, I dreamed of oversized accordion doors

so I could make the living room half sky, half beam and post.

But here it can snow on the 4th of July. Under soft plaid wool, we sip cocoa

through hummingbird straws, watch the night blast in dahlias of fire.

We also know how to clear away the dead in a dustbin, know flight

doesn’t always land in safety, that kept nests in the eaves

and atop porch lights are harbingers of luck, signs of respect. Myths
are made under covers, salty as worked skin, never told the same way twice.

My husband, who red-lined the budget on the folding doors, who instead

ordered the largest glass in the warehouse, is up in the clouds now--

circling low, calling me to come outside and wave. “I’ll tip my wing,” he says.

I bound out the back door, hair in a towel, no pants, arms like blades

carving a snow angel in the air. This life, this unfettered longing,
so much sweeter than hope. It’s a wonder we can stop looking up and out at all.