Growing Feathers

Growing Feathers

I'd like to grow feathers as long as houses
on wings as wide as a bus
great cushion hands instead of claws
for holding and scooping children
and there would be golden sunset
painted on my wings
picked out against an indigo dusk
and my hair would be pink streams of clouds
curling around like blankets
and I'd swoop down on Kurdistan
and Somalia,and Egypt,and all of Africa
and Malaysia,and sometimes Europe
and I'd scoop up the girls before they came for them
with rusty razors, knives, or broken glass
before the smiling torturers came for them
led by Mother who had had it done to her
and I'd give them a life they could choose
and the education to help them choose it
and the chance of health and love and pleasure
and the chance to make a difference
and grow feathers