Inescapable
The night before an early
morning flight, I
can never sleep, but obsess
on my angry tethers to earth.
Night eases its tongues—
such remorse for the body’s lost
wings, a white lily burns
its delicious fabric on the inside
of my eye.
I try to excise regret
with a scaling knife: too much love
spent on cowards. Where are
the dead
I could not face?
Look
for clues, always
the angel whispers,
holding me fast
to him. His wings, milk-blue,
flutter and quake
against me
until dawn.
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