*
If my second crush had wings, he’d tuck them behind him and treat them as if they were just another pair of hands in his pockets. Translucent as ice and thin as parchment, they’d be easily missed. Everyone would notice his baggy pants with patches and chains before anything else.
If I had wings, I’d develop a fear of blushing. He would sit beside me and tell me about his visions—psychedelia involving candle-headed serpents and platinum-speckled palm trees. There would be a few occasions where his feathers would touch mine and I’d look to see if he noticed, wait for him to give me his goofy grin.
If my second crush had wings, he’d draw what he saw in the poems I sent to him at three in the morning. He would leave his sketches on my doorstep, on my desk at school.
If I had wings, I would wait to see him get married and have cherubs with the chubbiest cheeks—all featherless, buoyed only by strings of clouds and song.
*
If men had wings, clouds would become punching bags and electrical disturbances the perfect obstacle course for a reality television series spanning multiple seasons, including celebrity guest appearances. There would be mishaps, of course, and all the more reason to tune in.
If I had wings, storms would remind me of my limits. The heavens striking down those who became too reckless would be warning enough.
If men had wings, there would be plenty of disappearances. All these attempts at circling the globe, flying higher than the sky and never coming back. We wouldn’t need Icarus and his sun. Such myths would be too small for our blustery, unfolding world.
*
If my third crush had wings, they’d adorn his ankles. I’d watch him fly across the track at school like Hermes or Nike. His thighs would be a gift from the gods. I’d overhear some girls in class whispering about “what he’s working with.” I’d see him, once, entering the changing rooms when I was exiting, and he’d acknowledge my presence with the gentle crease of a smile.
If I had wings, I’d fold myself up in the stands and stare into the sun as long as I could in hopes of ridding myself of the curse of sight and all the furtive glances that went along with it.
*
If men had wings, there would be billboards on the highway plastered with the most lustrous, gallant plumage, advertising how you could get yours to be just like them. Just call this number, just make a few payments. It’s really that simple.
If I had wings, I might pluck some of the feathers to use as bookmarks. I might press them into notebooks like dry leaves from places with a more colorful autumn. In happier dreams, they would turn into darts, and I would play a game or two with writers and teachers in smokeless bars.
If men had wings, there would be contests with huge prizes for the most impressive wingspans. The judges would score based on other factors like acrobatics and flight choreography, but we’d only pretend like they mattered. When it came down to it, it’d be all about the wingspan.