By S. Brackett Robertson
There were feathers in her sleeve, first
feathers and —
she scattered when upset,
She knew the feeling of frustration,
the urge to run, hide her shifting face
expressions out of control.
Other people worried she couldn’t think then
keep thoughts orderly, one two three
they didn’t know her thoughts always dance
It was only after the feathers first appeared
that she learned to flock
maybe if the fear and rage were diffuse
they wouldn’t cause so many questions
so much distrust.
I know that feeling,
when I’m about to become infinite
encompass the land.
Or when I will shrink down
try to hide my wingspan
fly far from the world.
I remember that first shattering
when words were thrown at my defenses
breaking them into pieces.
As if it was my fault I scattered.
They said I was manipulating just by being broken.
I’ve tried to collect the pieces now,
unite feathers with skin.
Am I fraying at the edges
spiraling away into the sky?
I send my flocks of thoughts away
(The birds are infinite, each smaller than the last)
so I can spend time on another wire
overlook others’ lives.
S. Brackett Robertson lives near many bodies of water. Brackett‘s work has previously appeared in Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium, Inkscrawl, and Stone Telling. Brackett enjoys museums and math and occasionally tweets at sbrackettr.