I was not born with wings.

My body bears no adornments or golden heavens.

There is nothing tattooed on me to show that I am from anyone or anything.

And yet, in my body,

with all the things that make me mortal,

is a phoenix trapped.

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It was born when I was and it will die when I do.

But I hear its calls everyday.

I hear its longing, its love and

I cannot let this phoenix die, nor can I keep it longing;

who am I to deny a bird its wings?

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So I follow its calls, its longing, its love,

like a siren’s song,

all the way to the base of a mountain.

The phoenix cries to go to the top, to scream, and to breathe fire as I would air.

So I grab onto the edge and I try to pull myself up.

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My body collapses and I hit the earth,

and this phoenix screams like

all goods things have died.

I pull myself up and try to climb again,

but I am not smart enough to find a way up and

I am not strong enough to climb its slope and

I have no wings to carry me to the top.

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This phoenix is not satisfied.

This phoenix screams like

all good things have died.

This phoenix does not accept that

my body bears no adornments or golden heavens,

that there is nothing tattooed on me to show that I am from anyone or anything.

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This phoenix screams like

all good things have died.

There is this fire in my chest.

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This fire

followed by a screech, a howl, a roar–

a scorching pain called

anger.

It scars me and I am adorned with

my pain,

for if I were to give up,

if I were to forget my phoenix’s pain,

my body would remember.

My body would remember the

claws and the

fangs and the

wings and the

rage.

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Adorned with scars,

I venture away from the mountain.

My legs wish to collapse but there is

a scorching pain called

anger

burning inside of me and I cannot give in.

I venture away and I

trudge down to water,

down to a river.

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I drop to my knees and I grab a handful of clay.

I am made of mud and soil

and I make with mud and soil.

The sky weeps all over me.

The mud gets beneath my fingers.

And the sky weeps, stoking

the fire in my chest.

The fire

followed by a screech, a howl, a roar,

a scorching pain called

anger.

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If I were to forget my phoenix’s pain,

my body would remember.

Our body would remember.

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The sky weeps,

blooming our fire,

blooming our rage,

blooming our own golden heavens.

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With the clay, I began to build my own mountain.

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