My father is growing wings,

they’re small and I can

barely see them, but they’re

beginning to push through

his shirts.

My father is growing wings

and they must itch

because he tries to scratch

with his hands, gives up,

and instead uses the wall.

My father is growing wings

and when he sits in the

garage reloading shotgun shells

he pulls them over the back

of his chair like a woman does

when she has long hair.

My father is growing wings

and they fill the space

by him where I used

to sit in the evening.

My father is growing wings

and they flutter each time

he holds one of the children

in his arms.

My father is growing wings

and they grow bold

when he speaks of his love

for my mother.

My father is growing wings

my father has grown wings

and they’ve taken him

far away

And nothing can reach him

except thoughts, and tears,

and prayers, and love.

My father…and his wings.