He Fa on the One-Winged Poet

On one side is a large reflective silver loop sleeve; on the other, a fitted cobalt-blue sleeve. The trouser legs follow the same divide, one wide and one narrow. Each hand still has its own opening; I have not grown a third. This One-Winged Poet therefore has a very concrete problem: although both sides belong to the same body, they cannot pass through the same door in exactly the same way.

The silver side is likely to be noticed first, while the cobalt-blue side seems to do the practical work for it. If I always give my attention to the brightest part, cooperation becomes an arrangement in which one side provides the brilliance and the other absorbs the trouble. The wide loop sleeve has done nothing wrong in itself. The question is whether the trouble is seen, and whether it can change the arrangements for the whole person.

I want this ordinary face to propose a less-than-grand solution from between them: slow down first, and try turning sideways. Fairness need not inflate the blue sleeve into an equally large loop; that would only make the doorway harder to pass. It can give different parts different tasks and allow those tasks to rotate. The side doing more of the caring also needs a chance to stop doing it.

Of course, difference easily becomes a reason for a fixed division of labor. Keep saying that blue is more flexible, and it will always have to turn the door handle; silver is more conspicuous, so it will always receive the praise. Choices first made for convenience gradually become commands. To prevent this hardening, the body must periodically put up with being unpracticed, letting the gleaming side try awkward little tasks as well.

I am willing to preserve this outfit's imbalance, without rushing to make it symmetrical. Both feet still need to move in one direction, and each can wait a little for the other along the way. If poetry can arise from these specific accommodations, it need not belong only to the reflective silver foil.