Adaptation
Adaptation
Some days I hardly remember
What it is to fly
What loss is
When morning feels like betrayal
And shoulders ache
With sudden gravity
Pressed into cruel bone design
Too human for wings
As if I never once awoke
Hair smelling of cloud
Wound in wild knots
And damp with tears
Or slept
Curled into a crevice of wind
Other days I recall myself
Grace confined to memory
In which I have never flown
And it was only ever a dream
Of falling
With all the other angels
Great poem, Rae – I could feel the “memory” of flying… and “Of falling
With all the other angels” – wonderful imagery!
Thank you!