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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