Flying Lessons

School speaks in tones of devotion, church talks of tests
and both of texts into which I dig, worship more than read,
stare at more than understand. On slow days I

sit by the window, in the corner, as far from the door
as I can to always see it shut and never be passed,
the first to arrive and last to leave. Outside
the other kids play wallball, run footraces in the grass.
Inside my name is called in class, stomach sinks
in-stan-ta-ne-ous-ly. If I could

climb the watertower, I'd see all the way to my home. Just
jump the fence, cross the gate, be a nobody turned superhero
carried on their shoulders. Instead, on the park swing I
teach myself to let go, to send my body through space
using only the restraints around me: I start slow and tuck
the chains against my shoulders, push down hard on the way back;

chest pitching forward, feet held together inches off the ground,
then a weightless moment as my legs come loose, falling open,
rushing forward: pull the chains hard on the way back up.
Zero to flight in no time, high like the big guys and
every once in a while not even too scared to jump free.

Angels desire life, are made to be jealous, as am I.


2011