Growing Wings

Pink wet robin, a baby perched
on the end of a shoe,
plucked right back into the nest,
to be rejected if the oils on my hand aren’t too human.

The alchemy of milk into caramel,
a shifting of weight on linoleum.

When the power finally cuts off
there’s a triangle of steak, a folded slice of bread, and beer.

Wings sit in the back of geometry class.
Mother of pearl at this angle, bending at the knee,
she makes the sign of the agnostic.

HVAC repairmen fashion sheet metal into tear ducts.
A line of migratory birds registering flight paths with the FAA.

This poem appeared in GRIFFEL, June 2020.

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