I dream sometimes of falling into
the sky, scrabbling my nails furiously
into the dirt as grains of sand
fall up with me and gravity forgets
itself. below me the seagulls circle and
scream, growing distant as balloons
against blue skies.
sometimes I do not know where
I am headed. I look in the mirror
and ask myself if I am important yet,
if I have become a woman of substance.
what was it my father told me
about wings and wax—
how flight melts when you examine
it with a magnifying glass?
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