even though the new specs made nuit jus a shadow of her former featherd self at least she no longer had to squint n fidget like a fruit bat at the regi swipin the organic as hell hand creams (which smelt of sex she thought) the pricey ones at the supermarket the one next to saint francis reserve where she’d sit quiet at lunchtimes under the pohutukawa in the days after she bartered her wings away for a pair of ray bans which she was told was the cream of the crop for her ruru riches her featherd furies pearls soft as oysters moist wit rain which would jus shake off wit a shake and she could shake fury from da sky she could and cos wing amputation was quite the surgical procedure afterwards a nice nurse took a polaroid of her damsel scar now retrospective in a snap (six hundred stitches swollen n swabbed) then gave her a back rub till nuit finally let go of all that she owned till the prospect of returning to her job pleased her untold (now that she cud see proper all fixed up wit her new ray bans) which woulda took a load off if it werent for the back pain the gap left pulsin like a secondary artery between her shoulder blades drawing horizons of weepin stars which’d never set which would constantly remind her of her loss her sense of deficiency and whenever a customer came up to the counter wit a pair of their own (synthetic whatever) on their shirts skins or simply silver round their necks she’d tell em of the other wings she’d seen (2 so far this mornin) along wit the myths n legends dat came wit it and all this kinda banter bout wings wit customers helpt her breathe away the dull aches her headaches and lopsidedness and helpt her breathe at the end of the day breath was all she ever had she thought it’d be all she’d ever own so she’d feel grateful for the next