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.