She had feverish dreams and when

keratin tips erupted from her shoulders

the shame she felt was a red slash.

Plainly, she was growing wings.
Her husband moved soundlessly

about the house. He pitied her awful scratching

and was sorry when she shifted

to the spare room.
Ah, such dun-coloured feathers

no crimson or kingfisher blue,

no delicate spots. And she with

her heavy bones, earthbound still.
Yet, on autumn afternoons

she lies secluded in the courtyard,

her feathers glossy with the heat,

napping on the pavers
and imagines her phantastical

shape viewed from above. She is

not displeased. Neither siren nor harpy

just her own, old, mutable self.
Wings. Not better, not worse

than the breast buds that years before

had ended her weightless world

of cartwheels and handstands.
Now the magpies on the railing

are more beguiling than her books.

And they watch her too

turning their knowing heads
as she dips in and out

of the sprinkler’s parabola

and droplets flung from her shaken feathers

cascade and catch the light.