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I stopped admiring the sky  By Kelsy Bellahon

On an icy day in February, when the morning was gray, the clouds dark, and the best pieces of me lay still in the frozen mud. Lungs drowned in jet fuel, my flyboy’s wings splayed out beside him, a blood eagle execution, my backbone exposed, a victim to a flight in winter. I put all my faith and all my future in the hands of a sky that never once promised to set him down slow or set him down easy. Now all my curves have gone rigid, my heart, once soft, is now a rock. And I can’t tell if it is the weight of it, or the way gravity has its wrists shackled to my ankles, but every evening, I am taunted by the color drained out of me, and hung up in the west, held by a tourniquet on the horizon. If mortality would lose its grip on me, there would be sunsets smeared with scarlet, drenched with wet crimson, my knuckles bloody, my nails jagged from clawing through a sky to reclaim what is mine. Hell hath no fury, because it all belongs to me. No, there is nothing beautiful about a sky that stands between a widow and eternity.

Sirenen-Eiland (1981)

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