WINGS
It had been three years, maybe longer, and the map of his body was etched
in her palms. The stretch of his legs. The stiff, clean-shaven line of his jaw.
His left ring finger, curved slightly inward. So of course she made the discovery.
The first feathers appeared in a pair. She was facing him in the grey wash of morning,
stroking the knoll of his shoulder blade, when twin quills broke suddenly through the skin.
He locked himself in the bathroom for hours, cursing blankly at the mirror.
They grew quickly, eclipsing his back like snowfall. In moonlight they were lustrous.
She would brush them gently with a damp washcloth, gather loose feathers in a basket.
Under their spreading canopy his muscles formed tight knots, pulsing like fists.
He complained about their aching weight, how they poked holes in his favorite sweater
and sometimes, of their own accord, began to flap and pull his feet from the ground.
Just think of all the usefulness, she said, fan on a flaming night or extra warmth in winter.
But he became sullen, took long walks alone after dinner, absolutely refused to see a doctor.
He would not go to the beach anymore, even when she promised a three-color sunset.
Can’t trust these things, he told her, and I’m not stupid. I know my mythology.
When he asked her to leave, it was another grey morning. He lay sprawled on his stomach
at the opposite end of the bed. He gave no reason, but she knew it was another woman
because their beauty was blinding. Even fully clothed he leaked gallons of light.
In time she moved on, ripped up his pictures and set the ridiculous basket of feathers on fire.
But some mornings she woke drenched in jealousy. Half-believing she heard a rustle,
she would stare at her husband’s empty back and wonder if anything would change.
from Breaking the Map (Blue Begonia Press, 2009)
originally published in Prairie Schooner
