Today's poem is by Carol Quinn
On Sundays, they appeared
like a recurring dream of flight.
They landed just as church
was getting out. For my mother,
they were missionaries of
a rival creed. They had long hair.
They put faith in the leanings
of their bodies and the air.
She tried to warn me, but I
secretly loved the scaffolds of
their wings. After cheating death
(those were her words), their wings
were stolen canvases cut from frames
and quetzals eating from the hand.
She said that no one would be there
to bear me up the day I stepped away,
but that was not the hardest thing.
More difficult than flight itself
was learning how to brace a wing
for someone elseholding to
the wire as if it were a bow
and then, when he asked me to,
Copyright © 2008 Carol Quinn All rights reserved
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
Support Verse Daily
Sponsor Verse Daily!
Web Monthly Features
About Verse Daily
Submit to Verse Daily
Publications Noted & Received
Copyright © 2002-2008 Verse Daily
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2002-2008 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved