In my other life


    I leap through leaf laden boughs, dancing


    and diving over rushing waters, rivers,


    under dappled light, high rooved woods,


    wind rippling the feathers of my wings.


    There is a temple, in my other life,


    where friends gather: stone pillars,


    a sword, the reverential tilt of a head.


    We gather, we fly,


    The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.we glory in the beating


    of wings.


    In this life I wake and keep


    my eyes closed. I pull


    close the blanket, tuck


    myself against the cold.


    Sirens wail. Or they did


    when heat threatened and


    we hid in bunkers, sweat


    pouring down dusty faces.


    In this life my sister asks,


    “are we doing the dying?”


    and my father turns his head


    towards me and hides what


    I shouldn’t have recognized


    as fear. Friends from Dresden


    hold hands with me, in dreams,


    and as we open the bunker door


    I see wings overhead, wings of metal


    and stripes, not feathers, and feel


    heat on my cheeks, and hands I held


    in dreams sink deeper into the black


    asphalt of roads, knees and feet all


    stuck, burning, smoking; their eyes


    fixing me—the heat, acrid in my nostrils;


    the smell, dry and hateful, fills my lungs—


    I long for tall trees, falling leaves, dew


    and cold stone, the rustling of feathers,


    the smile and dance of my


    little sister, her laugh clean


    and clear as the river


    of my other life.