For Months She Came at Night, a Strange Presence

like the beating of something flying
against the glass or the swirl of water
in a conch shell, a shadow of a shadow.
Then she got more bold, could unhinge
the porch door silently, help herself
to berries or bread. First I thought I
imagined the hole in the muffins as if
something with a beak found a way in.
And then, the trail of crumbs downstairs
out to the pond. One morning before guava
rose over the skin of water, it was the
second night I couldn't sleep and wanted
at least to see sun rise when I saw some
thing nobody would believe unless they
believed in angels. A woman, mostly a
woman, with wings in the wet grass with
doves and geese. She didn't have arms,
not like a thalidomide baby, but more like
another bird. An angel, except for a huge
beak where the Christmas cards have soft
lips usually smiling. She started to move,
to walk into the water but I beckoned, put
my hand out to her as if nothing seemed
strange and after she hesitated she kind
fluttered up toward me, her head
lowered as if she was sure I'd be afraid.
That must have been, I realized later, what
she expected of most women. I'm Leda's
girl she whispered cowering inside those
wings that were like a screen I imagined
her camouflaged behind, some Gypsy Rose
Lee doing a costume change, coming out
with a basket of fruit on her head. "The
daughter of rape," she hissed, more like
the geese, getting bolder. My mother was
ravished raped. Without arms. I could be
Venus. Without arms, she could have loved
me but these wings remind her of that day
everything changed. Now I crouch like
statues of angels in the gardens rain and
sleet pelt, earthbound and cracked,
still dream of flight

-- Lyn Lifshin