Woman With Wings
What does a woman with wingsdo in a world like this—
does she tuck them into her suit,
pull the lapels closely together,
tie a scarf around her neck
and lay them down with mousse
and glaze
so the feathers do not show
below her hem? Does she fold them in
behind the straps
of her glittering evening gown,
say that their tips are only
an adornment of style—
the season's fashion,
and does she lift them
with the dress when she
uses the ladies' room,
carefully holding them above
the cold tiles of the floor? And more—what does a woman do
when at night her wings stretch out,
unfurl around her as she stands
naked by her mirror,
sighing with the song of
sirens; those voices
once sung men to doom.
Does she cry for a past
that has sunk down,
like Atlantis,
beneath waves of progress
and the beams of steel that now are the boughs upon
which she rests
when she is weary?
I can hear her singing, her wings
strapped to her skin,
as she stands, hands on the rail
of the escalator, late for her
meeting with the board—
her lips move and I
can just
make out the sound
of feathers on the stair.
