Pegasus Falls
It began with a perfect horse leg,
a prancing hoof to grow my Pegasus from.
Uncertain where to go,
I had hoped this would push out
certainty in all directions,
your body forming like a bud
unfurling delicate white wings.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I would help
my mother make beads,
rolling the clay balls between my palms.
I'd line them in regimented rows on sheets,
each bead perfect in imperfection.
But my tentative fingers
could not pull out your long, perfect
feathers and those powerful wings
that should have been there.
Instead, I waited for you to grow like
ice feathers on a window pane.
Your wings should have been magnificent.
The day the earthquake shook us,
you trembled, then lept,
flying for a second to land—
shattering.
Your legs broke free of the awkward body
that was never meant for you.
That same day, my mother drove to work
to check whether any of her ceramics
had been damaged.
At the door, she stopped, fumbled with the keys.
There is no way to prepare for
something like this.
Like you, I too am falling.
Now, more than ever,
I wish for those impossible wings
that I could not make for you.
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