LEARNING TO FLY

LEARNING TO FLY

In the dream, the yellow school bus 

dropped me off at the highway at the bottom of the road.

I escaped a bedlam of screaming kids, the taunting, 

and the torture of spitwads and rubber bands.

But when I stepped off the bus, it was so silent,

my feet couldn’t touch the ground, as if repelled by gravity. 

I entered a parallel world, my legs dragging in laden air, 

as if I were paralyzed. The ground misbehaved like oil & water. 

It was like being in the Barbano’s pool, just up the bend, 

when I was 10, learning how to swim after a near drowning.

I experimented with weightlessness, hands cupping the air. 

I struggled to get my bearings. It was a long road with no birds. 

Man had not yet walked on the moon. My home 

was another world where my grandmother stacked wood, 

buried ashes in the garden, argued with Cromwell in empty rooms.

I tried the breast stroke, then the Australian crawl 

all those strokes I learned in that saltwater pool. 

At least in this dream I could breathe. No fear of drowning.

Not like the tsunami dreams filled with fish and shoes.

I pulled the heavy air to my chest in hard thrusts, 

gaining traction, but I couldn’t leave the road. 

It was as if I was chained to that roadbed, 

hovering a few feet above it like Chagall’s floating women. 

No chance of effortless flight like the redtail hawks & vultures. 

I had to work hard to gain momentum. Nothing was given.

The road was my body, my guide, my mentor, my map. 

But I couldn’t stray from it. My arms grew weary. 

Like Gulliver, I was chained by invisible ropes. 

Frost rimed the new grass. A pale sky verging on white, 

the beginnings of spring circling the dark drain of winter.

1/12 CPITS Write On! Terri Glass class

In the dream, the yellow school bus dropped me off at Sir Francis Drake. It was a mile walk up Arroyo Road to my house. But when I stepped off the bus, I couldn’t touch the ground, my feet dragged behind me, as if repelled by the earth. The ground was misbehaving. It was like being in a bright teal swimming pool, trying to walk against that water weight. I experimented with weightlessness, my hands cupping the air. It took a while to get my bearings in this new medium. Man had not yet walked on the moon. I tried the breast stroke, then the Australian crawl I learned in Barbano’s saltwater pool. At least I could breathe. I pulled the laden air to my chest in hard thrusts, gaining traction but I couldn’t leave the road. It was as if I was chained to that childhood roadbed, hovering a few feet over it, like Chagall’s floating women. The road was my guide, my mentor, my map. But I couldn’t stray from it. My arms grew weary. Like Gulliver, I was chained to that road with invisible ropes. The sky was pale blue verging on white, spring circling the drain winter.