Feather

My uncle tells me
I’m the feather of the family.
I think about
what this means
and if I should fear the wind
or the birds who scavenge
lost feathers for their nests.
I heard once
feathers are stronger
than carbon fiber.
After all, feathers
are made of proteins resistant
to bacteria, to cuts
and bruises from the sky.
Water beads, doesn’t it,
on the back of a bird
when it rains?
I know that when
my uncle pulled this word
through his teeth
it had come packaged
in another language.
His mind said one thing
his English gave me
feather.
It is possible
in his native tongue
I am not really a feather
but something else—
I am hopeful
it all means the same,
and when trouble comes,
I float.

 

 

***

Yasmin Mariam Kloth writes creative nonfiction and poetry. Her writing scratches at love, loss, place and space, with a focus on exploring her Middle Eastern heritage. Her work has appeared in Gravel, the West Texas Literary Review, JuxtaProse, O:JA&L, the Rockvale Review, and others. Yasmin lives in Cincinnati, OH with her husband and young daughter.

 

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