Wing

People can remove themselves from us.
I don't mean death. I mean another
undeniable turning, like a wing
we never noticed suddenly swinging
open, visible in ways only we see:
Oh—she has the power to move that way.
As once-included ones, we face
the mute, familiar angles of a face,
its histories we thought transparent,
its banks of flesh. A different glance
charged with some fresh need or ancient
ugly failure re-arisen
for reasons we should know, and sometimes
do, and sometimes never do.
Affection is grace, after all,
and we are at its mercy.

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Copyright © 2011 Lisa Williams All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission