That Feathers Can Burgeon From Ash
When I grew my wings, I tore them immediately out from their worn
down sockets. I have a stubborn knack for keeping myself soil rooted; teeth,
tongue, & claw turned inward, set to self destruct.
But I have learned that fire is cleansing, that feathers can burgeon from ash.
I feel them now-damp & white
-sprouting like tulips from my back.
This time I will not rush their growth or rip them from bone.
I will nurture every plume with Moroccan oil & all the amber words I’ve left
unspoken. I have spent more swollen, salted nights than I care to count
promising myself I would.
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