If men had wings, we would hear nothing but their beating. Some would learn how to tune out the takeoffs, while others would start their day by donning a pair of oversized headphones.
If I had wings, I’d learn how to fold them behind me like origami, try to hide them like a vice or a stain. Whenever I wanted a moment alone, I’d hover, retreat soundlessly into other rooms.
If men had wings, we’d birth another world of air. This would create a new economy, thousands of new industries. The old ones would fail, of course, and travel would change. Sky would become the new sea.
If I had wings, I would stay where the ground is soft and sun-drowned, keep barefoot on the cooling stone after a rain. I’d glide an inch over every body of water.
If men had wings, the elemental would become personal. Desire wouldn’t be a burden to be carried, wouldn’t be buried like a secret; our weights and graves would float. We’d imagine ourselves open as the weather.
*
If my first crush had wings, it would make perfect sense. His halo of feathery hair, a chest that glowed, a voice that rang high and wide like a choir of cherubim. He might even have pairs of double or triple wings like an archangel, as if he were part of a higher echelon of divine beings. His small frame would contrast against the command of his presence, but this would only entrance me. Despite his size, he would fight any bully that deigned to raise an eyebrow at me.
If I had wings, I would study him from my perch and molt.
*
If men had wings, there would be no rules for flight, although we’d pretend otherwise.
If I had wings, I’d become obsessed with rootedness. With all the sky astir, I’d look to those who kept the most still. I’d look to those stone figures that stood beneath the waterfalls and let themselves be shaped by the elements. The Earth’s earth, the bodhisattvas with all their lightness on the inside instead.