A family of pigeons

have made their home on our roof.

I watch them from the garden

as they fly off in great arcs and return.

Somewhere deep down inside

I know how to do that, how to fly.

I don’t mean that I can imagine it,

I mean that I remember it,

it’s stored somewhere

deep in the marrow of my bones;

the shape of my wings,

how it feels to be lifted by the air,

how to bank, turn and stall.

I know beyond doubt,

I once had a body

that could fly.