Horses have them. And some statues. “Everywhere” has wing-feet.
An Indonesian basket wears out the balled cloth shoes, over its wing-feet.
Assiduously unreported— Do you see how you'd never hear a peep?
You probably suspect, even now, some strings attach—to wing-feet—
—Nineteen lifetimes out of thirty, a fatal burning was at stake.
And only the provably innocent drowned... But every one gets wing-feet.
I bought the Tilda Rice because of its blossoming sapphire faultless blue;
the wrapper that coiled up tight, like a flute; made a bead, to match your wing-feet!
Moringa seeds fly in from Thailand. Brownish, beakish; with papery wings.
Taproots like the baby teeth of tigers; on a blue moon, nestle their wing-feet.
They sent us the Cathedral, the Long-house, the ruined Mission.
Who are “They"? A Gift horse. Sky-grass. Wing-feet.
ALISON ARMSTRONG-WEBBER is a writer and a visual artist, who lives at the edge of Forest Hill Village, in Ontario, Canada. Her chapbook, A Beautiful Place, That You Will Leave is forthcoming, from Dancing Girl Press. She fell in love with the Ghazal when she realized it might prove to be the perfect vessel to contain her run-on lines; in her hands the ghazal is somewhere between an alchemical flask -with little shell ears- and a cracked and languorous, unwaxed amphora.