Hollow like the leg bone of a bird
Fragile like the finger bones of bats
Both options offer lightness and allow for flight.
Spaces ribbed and netted filled with air,
or spindled spiny digits, spanse of leather
scooping evening breeze
for lift and glide.
No hollow bones for me, only this splintering.
I suppose I am more like the bat
four-footed missing link, house mouse
with webbed wings and a human face,
blinking out from overhangs and underpasses,
incongruous and featherless and feared.
No bird am I, no spirit of the daylight sky
conqueror of clouds, delight of gardens
angel-winged and haloed sweet of song.
This burrower falls to flight out of necessity.
I evolved to echo-locate in pitch-darkness.
Wren Donovan (she/her) lives in Tennessee. Her poetry appears or is upcoming in Emerge Literary Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Harpy Hybrid Review, The Dillydoun Review, Moist Poetry, and elsewhere in print and online. Wren also reads Tarot, practices dance meditation, and talks to cats. She lurks on twitter @WrenDonovan. Published work at https://wrendonovan.weebly.com/poetry.html.
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