The Beating of Wings

My own brother lassoed me once
right off my bright blue schwinn
in the H of the alleys
which bounded all lands
 
strange, because he didn’t
mean to make me fly, but wanted to
test his new skills before the
call for supper, when all possibilities
 
ended in strange torments
over mis-said words which
hurt my father’s dear ears and
required repeated corrections.
 
Bisghetti couldn’t be eaten
until young tongues became talented
or tortured;  this practice
is the work of angels, regretfully
 
lifting, heavy though it pains them
to guide the small toward wings.
Hold your arms out straight
and feel the words speak
 
volumes through your upstretched
palms, and don’t ever rest
those wings, or you will drop
to the floor, like one struck
 
close about his center,
with tender hard balled fists.
 

 
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