To fly is to deny death
as the body’s natural state,
to break from gravity’s
cold grip, to reject tombs
of rocky teeth and salt waters
and embrace the blue
of wind-chilled eyes,
frost-bitten toes.
But we were not made
for wings, bones dense
with marrow made
for contact and resistance.
Our anchors, laden
with borrowed lives,
keep us from exploring
the heavens—the space
where galaxies bear down
with unbearable pressure
on those of us jumping
and fluttering futilely below—
those who use all of our strength
to feel even one second
of a miraculous hover
before crashing back
to Earth.