how brown flight has always meant
to be beaten. come. come dirt. come soldier.
come Jesus, feet tattered, name worn
in so many throats that have never needed to learn
to sing beneath the clouds. come home,
my mother tells me, but here I stand
above horizon. here, my heart is a thing
beating and unbeaten. here, I am
blackbird flying without wings.
Mother, when have we ever reached for the sky
and not missed? how does one fly
without first falling from the cliff?
here, on the last rung between myself
and my holiness, my vertebral bruising
paints wings and the concrete does not dry
and the sun does not set and dawn is not a thing
to be broken. here, the clouds too
are barefoot and singing.
here too, this body is all between a girl and her wings.