Albatross Wings

Alix Fisher

They fly on albatross wings, unflappable, unblinking their sad eyes at 50 miles per hour. They, unmoored, they ride currents as free and those sad eyes gather air as if it were diamond, as solid as it, as precious, as cunning, even as bloodless pale salt cakes their inky corneas.

They, as brilliant. Those albatross wings as still their 12 feet know the meaning of fluidity, how one must drift unbending sails extant.

But albatross wings know time sadly, as space inky as their corneas salty as the air as they

Their pale feathers are bloodless as they drip They, dripping, they, gathering, they, still. They are at the peak of a crag, windworn by time and without airy time, what does an albatross have? Or is that all, the currents enough for an Aesir to drink solidly still as they are.

Are they here.

Or ascending bloody space, murdered as albatross are, freed.

It’s a horrible thing to kill an albatross, but their sails bend extinct nonetheless, spiral stairs to Earth too small for their 12 feet to unblink.