Hobble Creek Review
| Donald Illich |
Wings
We sleep in the midst of wings. They flutter over our
noses making us sneeze. They tickle the insides of our
lungs. They mess up our hair and scratch up our legs.
We don't call them wings, because we think they're
just air. Except the spirits know how to remain
invisible, even as they do the work through us that we
couldn't do without them.
We sleep in the midst of wings. They flutter over our
noses making us sneeze. They tickle the insides of our
lungs. They mess up our hair and scratch up our legs.
We don't call them wings, because we think they're
just air. Except the spirits know how to remain
invisible, even as they do the work through us that we
couldn't do without them.
Donald Illich lives in Maryland. His poetry has appeared in The Iowa Review,
Fourteen Hills, and Roanoke Review. He has work forthcoming in Passages
North, Lit, and Combo Magazine. He was nominated for a 2006 Pushcart Prize.
Fourteen Hills, and Roanoke Review. He has work forthcoming in Passages
North, Lit, and Combo Magazine. He was nominated for a 2006 Pushcart Prize.
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