Ostriches
from She Doesn’t Mind the Rain, page 8
Petaluma, 2001
All the women in our family have wings.
As daughter begets daughter, this odd
feature keeps showing up.
They’re nothing splendid, nothing colorful
or eagle-like, just small protrusions
against our round bodies with our thin legs.
They serve no purpose, except to be
inherited each year a daughter is born, the
mothers remaining ornery and flightless.
With our clothing on one would never know,
unless you notice how we never sink into
a chair but perch on the very edge of it instead,
or the anorexic look when we’re seen bending
over from behind, the bones poking through, or
the way we run, strangely aiming upward.
Each time a girl is born we peel the blankets
away and inspect our daughter’s back and
shoulders. Our husbands, puzzled by the sharp
twills just beneath their baby girl’s skin, worry,
but we sigh with relief that his generations of
smooth backs did not interfere this time,
not an air of confidence lost,
not one feather out of place.