My sister had a very
disappointing relationship
with our father
growing up
and always

she got her wings
as part of a rather large
tribe that know this song
and has done her very best
to carry on being
disappointed with men
along the way-

ALL MEN ARE THE SAME
she has said to me

I’m not remotely like
the characters she rails against
and I tell her so.
it just happens that
the ones she finds
sure seem to be that way-
I have to give her mad props
for her picker:
exquisitely fine tuned.

She gives me **** about
my stuff too, as she should
calls deep into my darkness
to the lie that I have grown to believe
the one that has led me to adopt
the dance of the meadowlark
so long that I have forgotten it
was a tool, a ruse,
a survival technique and not
really who I am

dancing in a pointless circle
with a wing that appears to be broken
luring no one in particular
away from the meat and substance
the overflowing bleeding heart
the tears and mostly the rage
and fire
and creativity
that is really me.

We are old now
and apparently successful in our delusions
but not really quite so
because we were born to be just smart
enough
to nibble away at the edges
and want to put on the shining suit
of light
with wings that really work
with eyes that choose to see
with hands that will touch
everything, all at once
and rejoice

now it is time to eat lunch
I wonder what she is up to
there are small things I must be about
and in the background
unavoidable
and yearning
the open blackness that means
another dimension is nearly here
waiting to be born