Feather, if you die, how do you die?
When you fall, does it hurt?
When you skim the sea, how cold is it?
When you rip, do you feel pain?
Why, feather, do you fall? Is it because you
can’t be on the bird anymore?

You, feather, are a professional drifter,
wind carrying you across biome and tundra
and forest
like so many of us wish so hard we could do
Plead, plead, plead
we could run or fly away
from our problems, the world,
everyone else,
us.

Feather, do you live?
Or are you just there for the kicks –
pushed away when you’re too old
too weak to carry the weight of the world
on your frail ridges
too ripped, too rough around the edges.
I think you must be just like us
just like
them