pegasus pegasus, you too know what it means to be fathered. we would put leashes on trees & ask them to be horses. it never worked. built a fence of pencils. the gods emptied their golden chalices on our heads & laughed. as children we didn't have enough air. resorted to breathing through straws. smoke came & then fire. sometimes our shoes would fill with blood & so we'd rinse them using the garden hose. underneath the evergreen we found medusa's head. a basket for pine cones. shrugged & wondered how she might have died. her snakes shed, becoming thicket-dwellers. this is when we first saw you. trying desperately to fly away, running & jumping then crashing into the dirt. sprinting alongside you, we said, "you are so close, you are so close." you were not close. not at all. you asked to see the chimera & we looked at each other. no wanting to admit which one of us it was. this is the kind of secret brothers keep to their graves. i will not tell you not even in this poem. you, pegasus, wept. said, "i just want to be unchallenged." heros cut through our yard to get to the street, walking towards town where they would buy hard candies & diet soda. we brushed you & promised to be kind. in the kitchen our father cut new holes in his belt to draw it tighter. his hair grew in snakes. pegasus, you asked, "do you love your father?" without hesitation we said, "yes, of course we do." the rim of fear in each word. knowing he could hear us. his steak knife. the horses he kept in the basement. we told you, "you should run away." dashing again the whole length of the yard, we got you to fly. you tried to thank us. your wings beating, dropping white feathers. we disposed of them after you were gone. would not want our father to know you had been here. still i kept one. put it under my tongue & waited eight more years for it to dissolve. today, it is gone & i am looking at my snake tail in the mirror.