when I was in first or second grade
I fell off the top bunk.
I don’t even remember having bunk beds,
just looking up from the floor at the blue railing,
a few inches high, that betrayed me.
we were flying into Chicago
a tiny Cessna headed toward Meigs Field.
I woke up as we were lifted up and down.
the white cotton inside of a cloud then a whole city of lights rising up from depthless black
my mom thought we were going to die—the flaps had frozen over during descent.
the violence of the air tossing us was lost on me. I found it beautiful.
my sister wrote on Paterson.
she quoted Levertov.
the bald image, but always—
undulant, elusive, beyond reach
of any dull
among the words, beneath
the skin of image:
she drew plums until they moved.
if you search the Rauner catalogue, you can find it.
mine too—look under ‘unsignificantly’
they capitalized it, though I didn’t.
he asked me to draw Sisyphus, rolling his rock up
it’s tattooed on his left arm
because one must
your body can fly
thrown by choice or illness
like a paper airplane from a window
but it will be discarded
icarus knew this too