Air Heart 1937 It was not the triangle that took me, it was the circle.

Around the Earth, they said a woman was not supposed to have wings, but I spread mine anyway. Lockheed lock what? heed what? Heed this: You will never find me Locked in solids form again. I am a vapor, dream, legend, whisper evaporating up around Gardner or Saipan or Rabaul. I called out from metal twigs, but I could not hear the sailboats answer. I am lost in the forest. My churning machetes beg for more fuel as they shred through the floating treetops. I am found, now. In the salted breeze I wander, home. I left my wings in the water below me I no longer need them to fly. I am my name, now. My lungs are air, my breasts are air, my heart is air. I live on air, I eat the air, consuming clouds above the Pacific. Breathe me in, navigator, and realize it. Wings were never meant for men.