stolen wings are made of clay
a poem by Gwevera Nightingale
only once was each the dunce for farthest strokes with blended blokes
creaks and cracks brewed broken backs for solemn souls who broke the goals
nevermore would prove some chore with those who’d melt a love that svelte
unless, of course, they were too course — if a horse, they walked a corpse
a sister’s mother’s love was fierce, yearning twofold, both sides pierce
women loving women knew, fate wasn’t something they could brew
those tender timings tore through time, teaching feathers forthborn grime
keep those safe you feel the most, see, lest you turn their heart a ghost
tightest burrowed, longest lost, brows had furrowed, missed; the cost
my stolen wings are made of clay, for me they’re love, for her they’re play
never could things be less right for how I’ve called her soul each night
she taught me, and I stuck right there — she held my chest, I smelled her hair
they only talk about the weather - Arny Margret
