Wings fold around
broken body,
like a mother’s hold,
he never used them.

Instead, he creates
shadows, jagged edges
against walls of
littered alley ways.

One can not
surrender wings
that have always
marked existence.

He changes
direction of the wind
to brush loose tresses
behind pierced ears.

One can not
fight nature
when it is smeared
all over front teeth.

We are desperate
for new names.
we call ourselves rat face,
time bomb, clever,
we call ourselves outcast,
twisted lip, beast, child,
never what we really are.

We accept these
marks of birth,
scars of experience.
Let them identify our beings,
like a mother in a mortuary.

These wings can
never be clipped,
just sawed down
to bloody stubs,
plucked and carved,
momentarily hidden
destine to grow anew.