Lurch of fear: the heart tumbles,
plummets into freefall. Terror,
terror. Clutching. Quick,
if only I can remember what I know. Remember
before I smash
have I wanted to be an enemy
of birds. Love, only love,
drove me to collect their wings,
feathers and hollow bones.
Only from the dead.
from the living. The miraculous
living. From the dead,
I took shriveled, scaly feet, bony
beaks and skulls. I pinned the wings, hung
them on the walls to dry. Admired
the simple aerodynamics of bone,
flesh and feather.
At night, I stretched and flexed
the wings and waxed them to my body, flapped
around the dark house practicing. Tossed
myself from the table, the shed roof,
the second story.
Then from a cliff,
I launched myself into their private sky.
flesh grew light
as I stepped into
All that space
Like the vulture,
aloft for hours.
Relax, as the earth hurtles upward. Shift
and stretch the plunging heart. Empty. Lift. Soar.
Circle and glide. Ride thermals. Trees shrink away,
ribbon rivers flutter. The earth tilts below.
O feral heart, only the air matters.
only the wind.
050806, 050615, 050509(4)bb, 050322(3)d, 021003(2)a, 020507(1)b
Closing Remarks: I used to often dream of flying. It is disappointing to me that I rarely do any more. I wonder if it’s because I am so heavy. Or more frail and awkward. I hope one never gets to old to fly!!!!
[NOTE: Revisit and consider Brigit Pageen Kelly's remarks on this poem, if possible, time allowing and if it can be located.]