the birds and cats tend to mock me because they, each in a different way, paw or claw at the thought that I want to be them. my thought of flight is just a dissembled metaphor the bird mistakes for a lust for wings. in the deepest hour of sleep when dreams are reality and reality is a shadow on a cave wall cast by candle light I do fly. Beguiling every nest and roost with plucked wings that don’t flap but in artfully dangle. Relinquishing my purchase of soil and stone I battled my Mister my husband air to get under my sowed and reaped feathers to carry me up to the mountain top high.

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