The Lives of a Voice

3. Tethered

The dove outside my window sounds hurt
all the time.

No country of origin.
Living in occupied territory

all the time. In the shadow
of an unattainable heaven,

burdened by a memory
of perfect orchards trimmed by unseen hands.

Maybe being winged means being wounded
by infinity, blessed by the ordeal
of freedom. At crossroads

all the time, all the time rocking
chair, rocking horse, rocking train, rocking boat,

a heart born to a station of oars,
an office of wings, born flying, born

falling between heads and tails,
trespass and grace, home and wilderness.

Could be thinking is curved, like the earth,
and feels, therefore, heavy.

Could be wings are an affliction,
a different kind of tyranny,
and flying is no better than walking upright.

Li-Young Lee

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