The Black Hole
by Dawn Bailiff
Rules of nature that confine and bind
when all I want is to be friends.
The caged bird sings inside my broken ribs,
ripping through the fat
that I have earned...
the fat that now protects me
from the stares of men.
Painful flashback:
those stares once led to Heaven...once...
when I believed.
Now, without the strength to climb,
I am forced to fly,
revealing my scabby wings for all to see.
Yet, that is how God made me.
Indeed, my wings spread easily now,
that the middle years have weakened my
resolve
to be grounded.
Better to be a broken bird
than a sprightly snake.
It is too difficult to gain respect
with your face slithering in the dirt...
no matter how good you feel.
These hand-me-down wings do not quite fit:
I am again a little girl, trying....
trying on her mother's shoes,
but, at least, wings make high heels redundant.
Recent Comments