Small Flies and Other Wings
Christine Ay Tjoe
After the breakup:
easing her out of the settee cushions
so we could see the damage you left.
Spaces marked by absence.
Your idea of husbandry,
less obvious than building fences
to keep her tamed.
You took her wings,
kept them between glass,
along with all the others
collected and curated
to remind yourself,
how many birds roosted
in the catch of your palms.
They grew back so different,
translucent to the eye
and always tucked away
from those who might be watching.
You would not return to her
for wings that looked like these.
Not when there were others
much prettier for plucking.
Carol J Forrester - Writing and Works 
Oh, we picked the same title… it’s amazing also how we (almost) picked a similar story from it. It’s sad when there are those just picking the wings and leaving. I can almost imagine him being a collector.
Tjoe’s title conjured a Bluebeard kind of collector – some lovely lines especially:
“to remind yourself,
how many birds roosted
in the catch of your palms.”
nouning the verb’ catch’ especially powerful
This is incredibly potent. I resonate with; “They grew back so different, translucent to the eye and always tucked away from those who might be watching.”💝💝
“If yer gonna pluck some wing, pluck the prettiest,” is what my old man always said. But he was a jerk, so….
A lovely poem that speaks to the art beautifully …
“They grew back so different” adapted but still able to fly, which is a blessing. Maybe after he’s long gone, the color and beauty of them will return.
So good! I love the third stanza, it tells a haunting story. 👏
The metaphor of the wings is stunnin.g I enjoyed your interpretation as it applies to human relationships.
Your poem touch a nerve with me, Carol, took me to a previous life, painful, in a way that reminds me how happy I am now. It’s horrible how people do that, pick at the wings of the one who loves them, keep them close and under the thumb. The words ‘easing her out of the settee cushions’ convey so much, as do ‘your idea of husbandry’. Kind of reminds me of The Collector by John Fowler and, as Laura said, Bluebeard.
This is so sad, but very moving, and beautifully done.
What a masterful poem, metaphoric drama.
Wow, Carol. This gave me the chills. Beautiful and painful poetry. The metaphor of wings is stunning. Loved this.
Thank you, and thank you for the share on twitter.
Delighted to share!
Best compliments!
I liked a lot: I have a specail weakness for wings ❤