I imagine that your wings itch,
like the fever in
my daughter’s bones.
First, to stay.
Then, to go.
A whiplash oscillation
for its tipping point–
the flurried breath
as flight becomes

4 thoughts on “Fledgling

  1. Your poems are so lovely, Lisa. I am sitting in an international terminal, having left family and waiting for my flight “home”; what a nice moment to read your poem. Longing to stay and itching to go….

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