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Ruth Williams


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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