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Ruth Williams

Aerie



We think wings

mean a way of being over, being done.

 

Yet, there it is: fat slap

of our flapping.

 

I understood the whinging direction,

wingtip to gravity.  The pull, pull down.

 

Which way? I asked, which way

to the knock-kneed, the heavy heart?

 

My parents were careening,

useless. Guide bars to want.

 

Tethered, my sisters were nostalgic

novels no one reads.

 

To be rid of my body,

I made the want uniform.

 

Fitting, I took the swing,

the grasp. 

 

I understand to fly is to be reduced.

I keep a hand on, a hand out.

 

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