Your wings shy away from me.
They are eagle’s wings, strengthened
by the wind that shoulders them,
their every feather sharp-edged,
unloving. Your wings speak against
the darkness of your eyes, the worry
of your lips, the welcome of your
arms. They will not have me.
My wings, though not of me,
yet borrow from my bones
a softness such as you will
never know. They are kind,
my wings, and lighter than a flower’s
conscience. In their flight from nightgown
turned shroud, they beckon to you,
and they will have you, just as
they have accepted me. Let them
fight their battle, our wings,
and to those that shall prevail
let us deliver our nights.