*
If all my other lovers had wings, they wouldn’t hesitate to turn me over—again and again—in their minds, in their beds. I’d be grabbed and thrown, always suspicious of how they saw me, what my wings really meant to them.
*
If I had wings, I’d wonder how long it would be until I became one of those men who took off suddenly, who disappeared into the atmosphere without a trace.
*
If men had wings, I’d fantasize about a field of the softest down before my deepest sleep. It wouldn’t be on Earth and it wouldn’t be in the sky. It would just be. I’d lie down wherever I pleased and time would cease. There would be no waiting and no searching. A man’s hand would touch mine and he wouldn’t pull me up, or out, or away. I’d turn and wonder where he came from.
*
If my future husband had wings, I wouldn’t even notice. In his photos, I’d notice his cats first, curled up in the bathroom sink. In other photos, I’d notice how he sat with his hands folded at his desk, books and papers everywhere.
If I had wings, he wouldn’t be able to see them directly in photos. He would barely see my face. I’d hold up my favorite quill in front of my mouth. I’d obscure myself as much as possible and make him wonder if I was even worth writing to.
If my future husband had wings, he’d ask to meet up at a café anyway. I wouldn’t hear him rustle when he came in. He would order a chocolate chip cookie and I would get a blueberry scone. He’d listen intently, and perhaps for the first time ever, I’d find myself unable to stop talking and unembarrassed by how the words landed.
*
If men had wings, I’d wonder why so many so often wouldn’t even acknowledge those without. I would spend close to thirty years wondering about this without a clear answer.
If I had wings, I would forget them whenever my future husband was near. Soon, they’d learn to be completely still. I’d hope I was becoming one of the winged who didn’t need flight, who could make a life without abandoning the ideal of roots.
*
If my future husband had wings, he’d be a guardian of the wingless and the clipped. He’d provide a refuge to those who were pressured to escape without the means.
If I had wings, I would imagine a home unfurling around us.
*
If men had wings, more and more, I’d welcome the forgetting of flight and escape. These moments of respite wouldn’t be many, but I’d be grateful whenever they arrived.
*
If my future husband had wings, he’d pick a quiet moment to drop down on one knee. We would be at home, alone. There would be no pressure from the outside world, all those gasps and prying eyes. He’d offer a feather to me, one I’d never seen before. This feather would be striped with deep blues and greens—the colors of our eyes. I’d turn this marvel over in my hand and he’d tuck it behind my ear. He’d pull me into his arms, his wings stretching wide, encircling us.
If I had wings, this would be the moment they’d disappear.