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SPARK » Brian MacDonald and Irene Plax

Brian MacDonald and Irene Plax

Brian MacDonald
square one

Response

Irene Plax
untitled

Inspiration Piece

The sun over me is so glorious it won’t shut up.

Underneath me is the sea. It’s frightening, a world unto itself, where I don’t belong.

I wasn’t made to fly; I didn’t hatch from an egg; these wings aren’t real.

I am wearing a costume, and trying to make it work, when I see a boat down below.

I bet if I were down there, I would say, “this boat is big as hell”.

From up here, flying, it looks like a rodent or a garden snake. I would swoop down and eat it for lunch from my talons, if this were the real me.

I have to keep pretending though, or else it’s over. I am going to fake it until I make it.

I fly past the boat. I fly past clouds. I keep flapping.

Feathers start to flutter around me, but they’re just baby ones so I don’t worry too much.

It does seem a little unnatural, to see these indoor feathers swirl in a blue sky, instead of

Spill out of a pillow or a winter coat.

It’s chilly, and I wonder why the sun is making me squint but not making me warm.

The feathers start falling by the dozen. I wish for the boat. I wish for a captain on board catching the feathers one by one, preparing to catch me.

“It’s a minor wardrobe malfunction,” I tell myself.

I know I am lying. I keep looking straight ahead, still flapping my thin wings.

I fall faster and faster and it occurs to me that oceans are connected to rivers, and it’s all one. Everything goes back to the same place. I hit the water.

I swim. I swim. I die at sea.

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