This feather in my chest.
How did int get stuck there, 
who buried the key?
Don’t say me, Emily D.

I was looking up. I saw
who flies with the god like
Mary O. and Emily D.,
their bones, their arrows.

Those who fly with the gods
try their wings out on the ground.
I let my bones get crumpled under
muddy envy and clayish compare.

I must learn to grow the wings
of beauty and other birds not born
of stone envy and childish despair.
What separates winged and walking?

Beauty and other idols not busy
measuring this feather in my chest.
What separates winged and slithering?
Don’t say me, Emily D.