He rustled his papers
and ignored my screams
as my mother amputated
the small wings
freshly grown
from my shoulder blades.
He said nothing
as I howled in rage,
a slap on the face
the only anesthetic
for the surgery
to remove my dreams.
He smoked his cigarettes
in peace and calm
as I wept mourning
the loss of flight.
When I brought home
a busted vacuum cleaner,
the spent canisters
of water heaters
and the elements
of ancient ovens,
when I cannibalized
the old radio
in the basement
that never worked
—he snorted.
“What are you doing?”
he demanded.
And I ignored him.
Because you do not tell
men made of clay
that you know the secret
of building rockets.