Take these wings. I have
no business in the sky.
From now on I shall confine myself
to smaller sections of an arc,
go back to the bitter
milk I was weaned on
at the silk-parachute plant.
None of this erratic dancing
about on a trajectory
that’s impossible to plot.
That’s not how dragon-
flies do it, much less wrens,
airplanes or hummingbirds.
My piloting mechanism must have
a fatal flaw, & I lack
the strength to climb much higher
than the hills. I have
no business flying, & aim to stop—
as soon as I can figure out
how to get back in that mummy
sack, the chrysalis.
Whatever made me dream up
some place called Mexico?
Just absolutely beautiful, Dave. Is Mexico the flame to your moth who might like to fly with the Monarchs? I’m always afraid to ask about a poem, because of my unfailing ability to fall through the imagery into a wrong place. This could have been a person.. and
I actually was taken by that “have no strength to climb much higher than the hills’ and from there went off on my own personal dream flying delusion. I rarely even attempt anything in a serious vein, but I’m getting too old not to give it a shot.
Time Travel
My dreams of flying lack the gift of loft
No transcendental trips appear to me
I pierce no holes in overhanging clouds
Nor seek to add more footprints to the moon
Instead I hover just above the trees
Arms in clumsy breast stroke flailing wild
Frantic to return to childhood home
Where my beloved dead are still alive
Quick! Quick! Before I wake to mourn
Hi Joan — The reference species here is in fact a monarch (the caterpillars feed exclusively on plants in the milkweed family, hence “bitter milk” and “parachute plant”). I like your poem — “the gift of loft” is very resonant, and the ending works for me. Nice to see a writer of light verse, uh, stretching her wings!
Oh! Lovely lovely.
Thanks, Natalie!
Thank you, Dave. It’s nice not to get my wings singed on my maiden flight. :)