Dead Wings

I found a dragonfly wing once in the park.

I was writing a coming out letter to my mum.

I never sent the letter – but I kept the wing.

It now lives on my windowsill, on the plate that’s under my corkscrew plant yearning its thin twisted leaves towards the sun high above the gloomy Liverpool clouds.

It’s six in the morning and the beautiful dead wing will never be pressed and framed.

I like it how it is

Fragile and in constant danger of destruction.

Like my wing I don’t want to be immortalised

A fixed point in the past

Pressed and framed remaining the same for eternity.

I am vibrant and alive

I will yearn for the sun despite the clouds

And I will change

In constant danger of destruction.