> ## Content Index
> Fetch the complete content index at: https://dianaludwick.com/llms.txt
> Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further.

# Wings
- URL: https://dianaludwick.com/wings/
- Published: 2026-04-15T19:07:00.000Z
- Updated: 2026-10-24T20:09:36.000Z
- Description: “Wings,” a tableau about what was on the table on a milestone day. Written April 15, poem 105 in a series of 365 poems written by Diana Ludwick in 2026. Photo, "Life-Changing Wings," by Diana Ludwick (c) 2026.
- Author: Diana Ludwick
- Tags: 2026 Poetry Challenge, Long form musings, Poems, Reminiscing, Amen, April, April 15th, Car, Chicken wings, Child-free, Cravings, Doctor's office, Driving, Friends, Infertility, IVF, Lunch, Mother-Daughter dynamics, Office Park, Parking lot, Prayer, Pregnancy, Reverence, Science, Seatbelt, Sonogram pictures (implied), Wings, #Migrated-1792872215677, #wp, #wp-post, #Import 2026-10-24 20:03

Push open the door;  
willpower against breeze.  
Traipse through an office lot,  
hands clutching collar closed.  
Precious cargo en route.  
  
Reunited with my my car,  
I gingerly unclench my fingers  
extract a length of thin paper  
from my chest; stow it   
with reverence in the cup holder.  
  
Draw seat belt across me.  
Drive across town;   
park once more.  
Meet an old friend for lunch;  
a prior commitment.  
  
We're seated by the hostess.  
I don't talk.  
I stare off at the far wall.  
I count, without tallying,  
the colorful glass bottles  
in the cafe's art installation.  
I knock salt and pepper shakers   
into one another. Boom!   
  
 "So....What do you want?"  
My lunch partner ventures.  
Silence; my non-response.  
 "...For...lunch?"   
She probes, further.   
Still nothing.  
I am not Here.  
  
She rolls her eyes   
heavenward.  
She lists out meal options.  
 "Salad? Sliders? Entree?"  
All while nodding her head,   
loaded with emphasis.  
I barely hear her.  
  
 "Diana, what's *up*?"   
She stops; gives me   
The Look.  
Not a look of *knowing*,   
mind you, but a more  
common look of vexation.  
  
 "You not hungry?"  
I   
don't   
respond   
quickly   
enough.  
  
I do register,   
however,  
 *a deep sigh*  
from her side of table.  
  
She narrows her eyes,   
while mine drift to hers.  
I lock in.  
  
"Wings."   
 "Huh?"  
  
I declare again,  
quietly, but decisively.  
"I want wings."   
"I *need* wings."   
  
She squints at me.  
 "Ummm...OK?"  
  
As if this will explain it,   
provide context for my  
prolonged strangeness,  
I simply reply:  
"I'm pregnant.   
Pregnant!"  
  
The server arrives  
I order a dozen   
for myself,   
alone.  
  
It's been six years  
of failed launches.  
  
And now  
with the help of science,  
a new story,  
at last.  
  
I finally have   
a second heartbeat   
thrumming strong yet unfelt  
deep in my changing body.  
  
My dining companion,   
who is in this moment  
both child-free   
and single,  
watches me   
with a double dose   
of intrigue  
and of horror.  
 (She orders a sandwich.)  
  
The platter,   
*my* platter, of wings  
hits the table.  
I do not hesitate.  
  
I proceed to bite,   
gnash teeth,  
and strip down  
each broiled segment  
to its stony-grey bone.  
  
I am   
 where  
 the Wild Things   
are.  
  
Again   
— and again —  
— and still more —  
until the plate is   
but a scattering   
of denuded poultry   
humeri, radii and ulnae.   
  
I am more   
than hungry.  
I am starving.   
  
I am burning   
with want.  
I am yearning.   
For motherhood.  
  
The holy grail   
I have sought  
for so very long.  
  
Since the playgrounds   
of my own youth.  
In those school yards  
where I played House   
in the dirt with my classmates.  
And I was The Mom.  
Always, in play yet  
still never, in reality.  
  
\= = =   
  
It's been more than  
one hundred sixty months  
since that moment   
in a booth where I likely,   
no definitely, slightly terrified   
my childhood friend.  
  
Ever since that blustery day,  
whenever I get the honor   
and delight of devouring   
a glistening plate of wings,  
I return to that strange  
autumn afternoon of surreality.  
  
That tableau at the table  
in which I fully processed that,  
at long last, I was finally,   
finally, actually pregnant.  
  
My epiphany,   
and my accompanying  
epicurious attack,  
over lunch with a friend.  
  
I can still taste  
the glory of those wings.  
The ones that my   
little miracle in the making  
had telegraphed to me.  
  
That they had,  
from before their first breath,  
craved so compellingly.   
So dearly.   
  
And that I had found  
and felled,  
hungrily,   
on their behalf.  
Teamwork.  
  
And now, in a new era,  
I look across the table  
and lock eyes at her.  
My daughter.  
  
We raise our wings  
and clink them together  
in a meaty toast while  
we exclaim, "Cheers!"   
  
It's our little ritual;  
our meal-time prayer.  
Over hot wings,   
we raise our high hopes  
and we honor the sacred  
— and the savory.  
  
For both are needed:   
fill the the soul;  
fill the stomach.  
*Amen.*