Two Wings and A Rib

Photo by Boston Public Library on Unsplash

A Poem by Alexis Ragan

First Published in https://www.callapresspublishing.com Spring Print Journal (2022)

Then the LORD God made a woman from the rib he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man— Genesis 2:22

There is a cloud

that looks like a rib cage.

It’s taking up half the sky.

Whispering white iced bone

marrow sweeps the blue

like a steamboat in flight.

Light, and gracefully stagnant,

I’m reminded of Adam—

how I came from

what he was made of

when the Creator

blew life on his bone.

It’s shifting now,

like milk does in a churn—

even so, it’s perhaps

the stillest entity

I’ve ever seen.

There is a cloud

that looks like a rib cage,

and it sails smooth in the sky—

like a ship sitting sideways,

like ribs do when a lady lies down,

floating in the tide of her organs.

It’s shrinking now,

softening itself into a stack

of wisps, or are they wings?

Two of them, yes!

And the cool glow of the blow

in his breath seems to be lingering

all around them.

As the rib longs to live

with its rack,

as the feather seeks to flow

with its flock,

so the soul aches to stay

in the presence of the One

who built birth to be

one breathtaking interlock.

I’ll rest on the wings

of the Waymaker then,

and remember, to fly

weightless,

unafraid,

still.