Wings

Margaret always suspected she had wings tucked up tight under her skin, Secret and hidden as a sin. She seemed to remember that Once upon a childhood they had begun to bud, But before they could unfurl An ill-timed word had withered them And she had pulled them in. But then, at thirty-six, she felt an itch Right there between the shoulder blades Where it’s so hard to reach. She tried all sorts to make it stop – Rubbed up against a trees rough bark, Took long hot showers in the dark When no one else could see, Even went to her GP who said "There’s nothing wrong that can’t be solved With sympathy and tea". By forty-nine she could no longer wear a backless dress – The stress of keeping mum was almost more Than she could bear and yet She kept her cool – even when Her wings were peeping through Like little feathered nubs that fluttered when she laughed. At fifty they were harder to hide – No longer folded safe inside They made her blouses bulge Unless she bound them tight against her back. And even then they did not rest, But pulsed with blood and life. At fifty-three she knew the jig was up: No way to cover the reality As Margaret’s true identity Burst through the bandages, The shirt, the suit. Hers were not The cute and tiny wings of cherubim But a mighty eagle’s span, Full of power and shining In the golden morning sun. The cliffs were high and far below The rocks that beckoned seemed to know Her fear of falling. And even though she heard them calling That the price of freedom was too high, Freed from their bounds, her wings beat now Until she felt the ground no longer Gripped her feet; and that was when She held fast her faith, took a running leap And flew.