In my other life

I leap through leaf laden boughs, dancing

and diving over rushing waters, rivers,

under dappled light, high rooved woods,

wind rippling the feathers of my wings.

There is a temple, in my other life,

where friends gather: stone pillars,

a sword, the reverential tilt of a head.

We gather, we fly,

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

we glory in the beating

of wings.

In this life I wake and keep

my eyes closed. I pull

close the blanket, tuck

myself against the cold.

Sirens wail. Or they did

when heat threatened and

we hid in bunkers, sweat

pouring down dusty faces.

In this life my sister asks,

“are we doing the dying?”

and my father turns his head

towards me and hides what

I shouldn’t have recognized

as fear. Friends from Dresden

hold hands with me, in dreams,

and as we open the bunker door

I see wings overhead, wings of metal

and stripes, not feathers, and feel

heat on my cheeks, and hands I held

in dreams sink deeper into the black

asphalt of roads, knees and feet all

stuck, burning, smoking; their eyes

fixing me—the heat, acrid in my nostrils;

the smell, dry and hateful, fills my lungs—

I long for tall trees, falling leaves, dew

and cold stone, the rustling of feathers,

the smile and dance of my

little sister, her laugh clean

and clear as the river

of my other life.