I try not to talk about it
people like the cream of mystery
they don’t want to know a fairy
has a history
that my wings didn’t grow naturally
that God had to touch me
to slat my back
with two parallel paths
two holes meant to glow
with throbbing
Who wants to admit
to the gash below the wing?
that even Heaven has a sting? that women
are always opening
and opening?
oh, I haven’t felt little i
innocent in a long time
and I may never get past
this gossamer trickle,
this lilt at my back
this rape that rises
on the wind like ash.
