It Is the Wings

It is the wings that take the damage,
not the hollow, honeycomb bones,
but the hooked feather-barbs,
their slender shafts twisted,
skewed, singed, snapped open,
veins and muscles, tiny nerve endings
flayed: it is the wings
that bear the glory.
 
— Claire Bateman, author of Locals


All poems, art, and photos are public domain, creative commons, or used by permission of author or publisher. Photo by Susan Etole.
Artist Debbie Young


Art by Gail Nadeau

Every Day Poems

Read a poem every day. Become a better writer. Participate in our writing projects, so we can see your work. If one of your poems is a good fit, we might feature it in this poetry-daily, with your permission.
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