By Isabel Butler
Growing pains
Wings not inborn
Not as when
The egg cracks
Yet even after,
The young wait a while
Nest bound
Before their first flight
Yet the human emerges
Life from life
Mammalian yet Divine
Hair not enough
For warmth
A mother’s task as immense
As the sun
Fallen out at desks
Fed on books, pencils, protractors, rulers,
Feasting on food
Fast and loose
Do such as these
Grow wings?
Does the mind take flight?
The slave
Equally
Whipped at the oar
He pulled with mighty cracked hands
Back split wide open
His wings broke through
As the lashings
Beat him
And the mother
The quiet life
Of endless devotion
Hidden intangible pain
Laundry, chopping, shopping
Wiping, listening. preparing
All in darkness
Wings spring up in dreams
So wings
Given only once
Our backs are tired and broken
So we may understand
Absolutely
What it means
To fly around the sun
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