by Susanna Mayer
I. Motion
Just try to hold a body
still in time. Thrust
your naked hand
into a flame to quell
its wavering,
its reaching up.
One pair of wings,
even in rest, trembles
toward flight.
II. Heat
Not only in the thick
smell of smoke
that exhales from
all six wings,
but in the sharp, blood-
and-fennel scent
of fervor.
Two wings wrap and cross
to clothe the thighs
and groin, obscure
the whole question
of sex.
III. Clarity
Two wings cover the eyes,
and for that, thank any god
that crafted eyes
from fire so they’d retain
their inextinguishable
light, and only too late
realized the terror
of seeing.
The last wings
are a lover’s turning
away in a moment
of naked truth, an act
of compassion, to avert
the eyes from that
essential need which,
once perceived,
can never be unseen.
Susanna Mayer is currently working towards an MFA in poetry at Texas State University, and she work as a proofreader for the Texas Legislative Council in Austin, TX.