With clipped wings, a bird
should be able to
glide the length of a room without gaining or losing
altitude.
This for its safety.
It doesn’t hurt, the
experts say, but some sensitivity must remain,
or perhaps
I cut a little
too close to the quick,
careless, perhaps, but harmless; the young heal so quickly.
“Have you been
gaining weight? Your dress
is looking a bit
tight.” Plants have their experts, too: Pruning is needful
if the bud
is to be trained, coaxed
into bearing fruit.
“Fractions are easy, dear. You’d understand math if you
tried harder.”
Bread is simpler: mix,
knead, pummel, shape, rise,
bake. This violence makes the dough strong, the loaf tender,
the crust brown.
“Are you sure you want
to date that girl? I
hear she sleeps around.” All for love. I would have wrapped these
fragile dolls
in gauze, shielded them
from any touch not
my own. But they woke, and fought my tender, pinioning
grip, until,
one by one, they won
their way free. The cage
built to hold them, the trellis to train them, the box to
contain them:
empty. Now, alone,
I prune myself, clip
my own feathers, and flinch each time the sharp scissors bite
at my wing.
Sean
