The Wheel and the Wing [1-5]


premise: a paraplegic (no legs) befriends a harpy (with wings, no arms)

[It is the author’s contention that those
who seek perfect footing in their verse
to be the most disabled, and the most
deserving of their place upon the ground.]
 
1*


Could this road get any more annoying?

Without a wall or fence, it leaves such doubts

of when to greet each passer. Someone

comes off the horizon, an hour before hellos


can even reach, and makes me look toward 

the sun to feign distraction, ready to look

surprised. When to wave, and what to say 

after we stop? Talk about the sunrise, and 


tire our mouths out as we did our eyes? 

This road is long enough to make us all 

strangers when we first appear, but 

so long that by the time we pass, so has 


our interest in the other. Yet who can say

they haven’t ever dodged a mercury?

Such a star, I think just passed me by. She 

came from afar, but came so fast 


that she blocked the sun before my eyes 

could even dart there. At least a bullet has 

a muzzle’s length to go before it hits me! 

Here, there wasn’t even that. She’s still far off


––I don’t have time! My eyes scanned the 

horizon for something to look on, rising up

until I spotted a bird, swooping over me 

and saving me from having nothing to say.


Chin up, I listened for her footsteps, even 

steeled myself if she bumped into me. I

waited––no one approached. I looked behind, 

and she was gone––I looked ahead, 


and found no one even to talk about her with. 

She had vanished, passed me by so long ago 

that now, so longs no longer reach. It seems 

there really are people more eager than me 


to get to the airport! This road’s annoying, when

it makes others annoyed at me. They must

have noticed I have no ticket––that I head to 

the airport not to fly, but to while the time away...

   2*

a long while. Is that weird? The travelers

see weirder on their journeys flying out, but

I’ve seen things in the lobby, weirder than

your average flyer. Never had I felt so far


from home, until I turned from the shores

to the planes within this country’s heart.

Nor did the distant pangs for foreign food

entice me in as much as hearing tourists,


munching on our local specialties. Just

now, I passed some foreigners who risked

missing their flights, just marvelling the

floor––while I, a ticket lighter than them,


was too gassed by its smoothness to relax,

so smooth that even walking feels like

squandering, that only wheels could find its

worth. Feel it, and you’d never guess how tall


the island was, whose shores roll upon

the equator, on that side of this side of

the earth; where jungle fights with cloud

over the peak and tosses down its fossils


with the rain that vanishes before

the morning dew and leaves the runway

clean. Stumbling on ash was thought

as luck enough by all; but this morning


brought me a feather. Only an inch

had saved it from my wheel, and holding it

Made me think of that bird earlier. It

was odd that a feather could make me


remember, for often did forgetting leave

me nothing but a feather, as if what fled

grew wings. It went well with my mask

as I rolled to the airport––slow enough


a line had formed behind me, but too fast

for them to pass me without being

rude. Doors saluted me when flirting

with their sensors, and the cameras


were kind enough to share their feeds upon

a screen, like mirrors with their eyes

plucked out and raised an inch above them.

My image looked at me when gazing at


the camera it fed on. Then, I looked at

the screen, and saw me look away. My

reflection had become as furtive as

a crush! I felt the pride of seeing myself


mixed with the gratitude of being watched

over, the mugshot dignity beside the debt

of evidence against me. I stared it down

as it recorded, goofing off until the
   3*

lady behind me said ahem. My barcode 

scanned, and I was free to go on. 

My wheelchair only did so much to stop 

the people next in line, tapping their feet––


but what else lured them close to me? 

I rolled into the lobby and to a table––

and who else was reeled in by my wheels,

but that lady who was once behind me, 


now sitting opposite, regretting that she 

tapped her feet, now hurrying to atone? 

[Lady]: Are you just going to sit here? 

Takeoff’s in fifteen. [Me]: I’m not here to fly. 


[L]: Oh! I assumed we would be flying out 

together––in the same row, even!

You look like you’re from where I’m flying to. 

[Me]: Was I too slow, checking in? [L]: If 


you were, I would be rushing out of here

by now. I wasn’t impatient––just worried 

that your antics might attract the guards. 

Is this your first time? [Me]: First time seeing 


you here. [L]: It’s even worse that you 

can tell! If you were new, they’d kick you out 

for holding up the line––but if you know 

the lobbies all too well, they will arrest you 


for loitering. You’ve seen the many cameras, 

all straining different versions of ourselves. 

[M]: Would a mask help? [L]: That would only 

draw attention, especially here! And blind 


you, too. Your eyes can open wide, to see 

who’s looking––but it’s easy to let an errant 

ear slip by. Are you listening––[M]: are you? 

[L]: What? [M]: Do you not hear that song? #
   4*

How could she not hear, between me and 

the source? Behind her was a girl, singing 

so loud she turned our talk into lyrics, using

her toes to write upon her tablet. The way


her foot moved made me think that her arms 

were less existent than my legs. I started 

fidgeting my wheels to get her notice, as if 

bragging I had hands. Then, the girl rose up


as if in challenge, and revealed that though 

she had no arms, she had been blessed

with wings. She escaped my sight behind 

the lady’s head, then stretched her pair


as if testing them, as if sprouting from 

the lady’s ears that still could not hear 

the girl, as if those wings poking out had 

really plugged her ears. Then, the harpy 


flew away, no sooner than the lady left for 

her plane, soon to be at different feet

once fifteen minutes pass. Where the harpy 

once wrote, I found she’d left behind a music


score. How to read this? Was it a clue on 

where she went? My only option was the lost 

and found. I held the sheet, seeing it rise 

and fall with the stairs my wheels avoided, 


each slope as smooth as one note to the next. 

As I made my way there, I began to hear

those very notes upon the page. At least

I knew I read the map correctly! It got louder––


I stopped to listen as closely as my wheels 

would let me to the door, afraid the song 

would stop if I came in too early. When 

it really did, I flipped the page, hoping 


there was more, yet found that there

was none; so I was forced to turn the door 

to find the harpy, wearing my mask that

that lady back told me to dump. She gave
   5*

it back to me, before I could even the score.

I still hadn’t given it back by the time she 

escorted me back to the lobby, side by side 

my wheels. her eyes were round, but did they


have to roll, round and round my wheels? 

I gawked not at her wings, though this was my 

first meeting with a harpy. Nor did I tease her 

with the rumors that I heard about her kind,


time and time again. How they ate men, though 

on man’s time-zones (sorry, not eat them, 

but out-eat them.) How they were measured 

by their wingspan, not their height; and even 


when their height was measured, how

they’d start with shoulders over head. 

None of these rumors did I use to rile her up 

before she began to freak me out by saying 


that she knew all who came here––most of all, 

me! that she’d seen me more times than

my wheels would have to spin to escape her; 

and that she’d taken such an interest in me


because I struck up talks with those of whom 

I’d never met before. [Me]: It wasn’t my choice,

meeting new people. I’ve looked for someone 

familiar, been to all the rooms, but never seen 


a single person twice. [Harpy]: You really think

you’ve been to every room? If you had, this 

wouldn’t be our first encounter. I happen to live

in the one room you haven’t been––the one 


that proves you’ve been to every other. 

[Me]: would you take me there? [H]: I would, 

but only if you teach me how to talk 

with strangers. I’d like to meet you again 


tomorrow, with that skill. I’m giving you 

this chance because I want to choose 

my conversation pals. [Me]: I’ll try! Did you use

the music-score as bait? It was clever of you,


but has the bitter taste of hook. Forgetting 

our encounter in the lost and found––if this 

were our first meeting, I’d try to break the ice

by complimenting something that you have. 


[H]: I like your wheel-chair! [Me]: Something that 

you actually chose. Something that you mulled 

over, just as you mulled over speaking to me. 

[H]: I like…your rims? [Me]: Thank you! It goes 


well with my mask. [H]: What if you have to lie? 

[Me]: Then, at least I’d make you think you’re 

worth the effort to be flattered. [H]: What a way 

to show your love for what I didn’t choose,


even if you’re bored by what I did! [Me]: Nothing 

but the best. [H]: What next, what next? 

[Me]: After that, I’d make you recall the time 

after the morning that you chose to don it. 


I’d ask you about your day. [H]: How was your

––wait, I know all of that already. I spent 

all day watching you, if you’d like to know 

how my day was––[Me]: Too much interest! 


Starting off like that could repulse someone. 

If you came on that hard, I’d end it there. 

You’re lucky that I’m not too good with 

ending talks, even if I’m teaching you how 


to begin one. If only you could teach me

that––[H]: What’s your name? [M]: Oh, 

that’s a perfect way to end it! [H]: Thanks. 

What’s your name? [M]: You don’t need to repeat––


[H]: What’s your name? Mine is Desde. [M]: Are you 

really asking me? [Desde]: If you don’t give me yours, 

then I’ll have nothing to call you by, except 

the Cripple. Do you want that? Or if not that, 


then the Foreigner. [M]: Desde, you say? 

At least you’re not the harpy to me anymore!

[D]: See? I’m new to branching out, but I do 

have roots. Strangers might trouble me, but most 


of whom I’ve known, I’ve known since birth. If, 

tomorrow, we see each other again, wouldn’t 

you like to hear me call your name? [M]: Sure. My name 

is… [D]: Don’t be say! Just shy it. [M]: ...Mitka. 


My name is Mitka. [D]: Really! Couldn’t

your parents have chosen something more

exotic? I know a dozen Mitkas. [M]: Yes, 

but do they know you–– [D]: Someone knows 


my name, and his name is Mitka! [M]: Stop it. 

You’re not my mic! [D]: I should stop teasing

––Mitka. You’re free to go now, now

you know my name. Go on! [M]: Do you think 


I’ll need it? [D]: Won’t you see me again? 

[M]: Maybe, too many times to use it. [D]: You

don’t need to use it. Just remember it, 

and you’ll remember to meet me tomorrow. #