wings

 

Wings

Slowly we ascend the dome.

Not the far reaches of heaven’s gate do we pass

nor the blue sky

but the beautifully painted figures of Correggio

or Michelangelo.

Swimming in air, arms reach and press

reach and press

growing used to

resistance and

lift,

the soft flutter--

our newfound limbs

bird hollow

our sweet breath

            electric with flight

           

and then, glancing down

a dark hole in the earth

the mouth of the towers

broken teeth, ragged shell;

we leave

a burnt offering

            circling upward

           

                         incense

and a slow shuffle of wings.

Joan Stone