She grew up with me, my next door neighbor
born in the season of flowers but
stricken with polio.
I walk and jump and run.
She shifts her walker along to reach the door,
while I cross the barrier with a simple lift of one leg.
The shadowy wings in her eyes scan the floor,
a sun in her room sings
but indifferently. She sits low,
a fairy with withered legs
that keep shrinking as she grows
and grows into a woman, to find the pain
the moment I raise my legs
and walk away.
She'll get used to
being stuck to the ground forever,
restrained step by step
until the shadowy wings in her eyes take her
to where I run and disappear.