(for Olga Radonjic)

Asleep on the nest of your failed feathers,
The wings rejected by the sun,
You rest, an Adonis, like Christ
Let down by Calvary.
The careful craft work of your father
Is now a shot-dead giant bird,
Lodged on the rocks soothed by the water.
Who heard your falling and trembling pleas,
The calls of sheer abandonment,
When your heart plunged with your melting life?
No god, it seemed, would save the day,
Nor a father of flesh, mind-shocked, speechless,
Islanded, alone, too far away.
A lack of preparation? No dummy run?
Poor materials? Or foolish egos?
The community would soon be talking.
Attended by a trio of angels,
Naked and wingless, milk-white girls,
Who appear concerned, cautious, and curious,
One sheltering wing points up, defiant,
In the trauma, the tragedy of the scene.
This, though, is the last act of the drama.
But imagine the opening, a boy
Shining and blessed, the first of mankind,
Hang-gliding so far above the sea,
Assured, light-headed, truly believing,
Free, in flight, following the fabled vision
Somewhere in the region of heaven.

Peter Thabit Jones © 2016

Published in WHISPERS OF THE SOUL (bilingual: English/Romanian), 2008