that the air couldn't hold you
My uncle Jack died last week from AML, and we went to the funeral in Gallipolis, OH last weekend. The funeral stirred a lot of memories and emotions, and though I usually don't inflict my poetry on people, this poem from a chapbook I published in 1995 came back...
Child of God
how in that moment
that stretches
from where you were
to the ungiving wall
how in that moment
when you fly out of yourself
and see yourself flying
the air catches you
loves you
tries to hold you
and the shock when you hit
isn't only from being thrown
isn't only from the pain of impact
it's that the air couldn't hold you
let you go
and you lie on the floor
praying only for the air to return
and you are a child of god
the rough hands say
this is his will
this is what has been written for you
with the air gone
you cannot speak, cannot disagree
just remain silent
as long as you can
because the boot
on your ribs
will eventually force
out the answer it wants--
almost killing the memory of air
Child of God
how in that moment
that stretches
from where you were
to the ungiving wall
how in that moment
when you fly out of yourself
and see yourself flying
the air catches you
loves you
tries to hold you
and the shock when you hit
isn't only from being thrown
isn't only from the pain of impact
it's that the air couldn't hold you
let you go
and you lie on the floor
praying only for the air to return
and you are a child of god
the rough hands say
this is his will
this is what has been written for you
with the air gone
you cannot speak, cannot disagree
just remain silent
as long as you can
because the boot
on your ribs
will eventually force
out the answer it wants--
almost killing the memory of air