What Will I Do With My Poem When It Grows Paper Wings

what will I do with my poem when it grows paper wings

will I fling it into space;

will violins break off apace from

shining, momentarily-

then?

or will it chirr in the shadows

making believe it’s crickets,

not fooling anyone.

what will I do

if it stands on its head and topples over

into the dewy grasses I remembered:

making the children dressed in peach and plum

laugh uncontrollably?

or gets by, in tatters, on a black cherry wind

incapable of fending, really, the aunts all said:

what if it never comes home for Christmas

with a rubied scarab pin

in flecked tissue paper with a

scattering of small stars?

or goes down the slide too fast, afraid of clouds?

what if it grows paper wings and sings and sings

itself into someone’s last summer on earth:

vanishing from one kingdom-

popping up in another-

froth of lemon and

freight of snow.

mary angela douglas 1 may 2013.