Teresa White

Wingless I won't rise again from this old couch worn and comfortable and safe. My legs aren't broken but my wings are gone. Walking upright, I mumbled through the gray housework, by all appearances whole as I've ever been. I am not starving in some moonscaped country; not cold under a bridge in the oily night. Bright and alive in pressed cotton-- my eyes are clear, my mind sound. The clock has stopped but I won't rise to wind it again. The  book I was reading has fallen from my hand-- what more must I learn? You're gone. I watch the ceiling fan-- its predictable revolutions all I'm counting on.

Copyright © 1999 Teresa White All Rights Reserved