My wings have reached their fullest length.
They are massive and I couldn’t let them stretch out
in my bedroom for it is too small for the size of my wings.
My skin knows of the wind and I’ve felt its rush before:
on quickly-moving boats, on road trips with the windows
rolled down and the music playing loudly on the car stereo,
at the peak of a mountain and the breeze flew fast and free.
I know of the wind and it doesn’t scare me.
I breathe the air and can feel it burn inside my bloodstream.
I’ve tasted flight and know it intimately
down to the cellular structure of my body.
The only thing keeping me here are my feet
and the ground it has come to know and love like a friend.
To fly would separate these lovers of flesh and earth
and I cannot be so cruel.
But I want to touch the sky and see the world from above.
And so I sit cross-legged and reach down to kiss my own feet.
And I take a sharp saw and cut the bone just right above the ankles.
The blood drips down into the ground like tears.
Each movement of my arms cuts deeper through and the sound
is the sound of “good bye” and “thank you.”
Without my anchor, without guilt or regret,
I spread my wings, catch the wind and rise above this sad moment.
This is goodbye but it is also the beginning of journey
that does not begin with a single step
but with the wind rushing fast against my face.
My feet on the ground with that which it holds dear
and the rest of me where it has longed to be
on wings I’ve tended to, nurtured, and grown for just this purpose.