*
If my first lover had wings, he’d believe himself holy. His feathers would reach to the roof and any that fell off would become part of his makeshift nest.
If I had wings, I’d cower at his abundance, his clearheaded proclamations. Having never seen so many feathers before, I wouldn’t know what to do.
If my first lover had wings, he would make sure that every single feather not attached to him was used. He’d demand that any strays that didn’t prove immediately useful would be fashioned into quills. Before I could ask any questions, he’d say the quills were for me to pen his story. Remember, he’d say, you’ll never run out of what you need.
*
If men had wings, many of those without would wear pinions like earrings or corsages. The winged men would object, but they would be mocked for this. Commentators would say they should feel honored by this kind of attention, really. They were the fashion and the accessory. What more could you want?
If I had wings, I would make a room of myself. My feathers would make a wall around my body and nobody could see in when I’d go inside. When I wasn’t sleeping, I’d write myself as flightless and featherless, and every step I took on that steady earth would make a clean snap like a wishbone.
*
If my second lover had wings, he’d show off his collection of feathers to me. Each feather would be a memento from one of his previous lovers. There would be hundreds, and each and every one would have its own box and label with initials. He’d turn them over in his hands, a curling grin on his face. What did I think of this one? Or this one? Wasn’t it gorgeous?
If I had wings, I’d wonder whether he would pluck one of my feathers after I fell asleep.
*
If men had wings, I’d watch them preen and strut. My eyes would roam when they weren’t rolling.
If I had wings, I’d stand in front of the mirror and wonder about the pain of having them removed.
*
If my third lover had wings, the talons would always follow.
If I had wings, I’d surprise myself by allowing the pain. I wouldn’t shield myself or fly away. Even flinching would seem like a failure. I’d watch as my neck and back began to flower with the tender buds of bruises.
*
If men had wings, disappearing would be easy, but so would violence. Gusts and claws. Snatching and tearing. Cliffs and distance.