the scars on the scars
straddling massive bruises
are side-by-side like
the bruises that are not bruises,
symmetrical and ever virginal,
vertical slices starting at my shoulder blades
coming to a stop just before my hips
breaking and healing and breaking again
because these wings,
these black, leathery things
are so hungry to stretch, so thirsty for air
it hurts when I let them out
but they have to be let out
because they hurt when they're kept in too long,
and then they come out on their own, like now,
unfurling, like roses blooming in time lapse
spraying my life on the walls
with that first wicked flap, the movement of wings
declaring, "We are free and we must soar."

the heights and the night couple with
the blood loss and the gravity shifts
birthing a delirious grin
that expands whenever
one of my girls
sees me first and screams.

Michael Chant writes fiction, poetry, and reviews with work appearing in such publications as Twilight Showcase, Horrorfind, and Jersey Beat. He is currently employed in the scheduling department of TV Guide. His poem "In the Shade of the Tree of Knowledge" can be found in our Archive.