Brian MacDonald and Irene Plax

Brian MacDonald
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Irene Plax

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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