Why we are not birds yet
It is not solely the weight of our bones,
and the seriousness of the marrow crowding
their cavities, leaving no room for air.
Nor is it the sorry failure of our shoulders,
too pre-occupied with the burdens of
reason, guilt and all those things we’d
prefer not to know, to ever operate wings.
We may grow flight feathers, and knit them with
wax strong enough for orbiting the sun, because
we are amazing, after all, especially to ourselves,
yet still we cannot circulate comfortably in
three dimensions, even through the fine skin
of our atmosphere. Our attempts to do so will
ultimately be the death of us. The only choice
we have, if any, is how quickly to fall.
first published in Rat’s Ass Review, Fall-Winter 2016 Issue