Wings, black feathers, a purple shine,
Iridescent black wings at the heavy glass door,
Thin arms in black sleeves, spread out cruciform,
Visible wristbones, the tight suit splitting,
Stretched on the boy's tall frame,
Ah, he tosses himself upon the clear panels of glass
Like a caught bird after the sunwarmed air
He needs to fly,
Slips down and drops and kneels.
Ah, he's hurt his knuckles pounding against the glass.
He stares at the hurt fist.
Mother. Mother.
He looks at his mother standing frightened
Beside the black bags, her nervous mouth smiling,
Her face is wet.
He turns back. He needs to get out.
High up and outside is the air he needs to fly.
He slaps at the transparent glass with the flat of his hands,
Stares at his palms, turning them over and over.
His hands feel sore. They baffle him.
He leaps across to his mother.,
Gulps and yelps. He takes her his hands.
He shows her his hands.
She cannot tell him, but tenderly she holds his hands,
Turns the reddened palms, kisses the knuckles.
How bruised they are!
Hides them under her soft embarrassed smile.
He wants, he grabs her hands, he wants to, wants,
What he wants is,
Wants to break out. The air. He bellows.
He can't get out. He needs the wide reaches of sky.
He yanks her over to the pane, to the puzzling glass
With quick light cries. Furtive, she follows after.
Everyone watches. Now everyone is chuckling. Everyone.
Oh my! Someone has called the police, the airport police!
Perhaps a spectacle, something to tell!
The passengers are waiting. They hope.
Five policemen, five. Look! An arrest!
No. They are listening to the cries.
They offer water,
And he tips up the bottle to drink.
He drinks. Everyone watches
As a very young policeman
Takes the boy's shoulders in his arms.
The arrest!
The passengers laugh, satisfied now.
No. It's only to keep the wings from the glass,
To lead the boy to the counter. Gently, gently.
But the passengers cannot stop laughing.
And in all the space there's nothing to breathe
But interior air fouled with public laughter
Which will not suffer the broken youth
Nor his mother and her tight half-apology-smile
Nor the hands against the glass
Nor the panic nor the need
Nor the struggling black wings
Nor any human thing that tries to fly.