clouds Over the grey plain of the sea winds are gathering the storm-clouds Words float like wayward clouds in the air in my mind. Now his wing the wave Wait-- or was it, Now the wave his wing caresses I dip a hand into my apron pocket unfold a square of paper against my palm, hunch my shoulder, hide it from view. Ah, yes. Now his wing the wave caresses, now he rises like an arrow cleaving clouds and The poem is ripped from my hand and the air, where only wayward clouds had been, is full of shouting, accusations a hand raised in anger ready to strike-- the world slows in the second before pain blooms in my jaw; a second to hope the poem is safe in my mind where fists and fury cannot shake it free. ordinary Just because I am small boned and short, brown haired and brown eyed, just because I look common as a wren meek as a robin that does not mean what is inside me is also common as a wren meek as a robin. Everything I wish for is strange aberrant even wrong in this place but I know I cannot be the only one blanketing her bright feathers hooding her sharp eyes hiding in plain sight. My life so far has been ordinary simple small but I cannot shake the feeling that inside this little body something stronger is nesting waiting for a chance to flex her talons snap her wings taut and glide far away from here. Excerpted from Audacity by Melanie Crowder All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
