for the birds

often i think i might disappear into thin air.

i’ve thought about where i would go

and every time i do i have wax wings

and i am sitting on the power lines above the town

watching everyone exist.

how do the birds do it?

sit and watch knowing they will never love

like they do in the movies?

then again, maybe they do

and we just don’t see it.

maybe in the background of every tragedy

are two grand fluttering things

falling in love.

to be the grand fluttering thing

in the background of your story

sitting on the curb like a motif.

to be grand at all,

musical and glowing,

i would dream up a thousand wax wings

and fly too close to the sun

over and over again

for a moment of holy light.

i’ve been unmade, and it’s overrated.

i much prefer being pieced together,

like this. by the sunlight.

by the thought of flight

and the way it has its own language

rabid and crazed in my body.

tugging me forward.

saying live. live. live.