Learning to Fly
At three,
There are hands
Broad, warm, like sunlight peeking through a blanket of trees
At the small of my back,
They settle me into a cradle of black plastic.
They push me forward
Into the slow, creaking rhythm of flight.
And the air smells of sweet milk and dandelions
Soft and safe.
The world blurs gently...
Spinning. Swirling. Swaying.
Chains rattle like distant music.
And cold fingers clutch them tight
My lifeline.
Slow
Creaking arcs
Beneath a patchwork sky.
I laugh, not knowing why,
Only that I am weightless.
At six,
My legs move on their own——
Slow, tentative kicks
The swing waits, then follows.
The wind's hands caress me
They brush through my hair
Slapping hard against my cheeks
Turning them red.
And the airs smells crisp now——
Like snapped twigs, dry leaves,
And the smoke of someone else's fire
Far off
But
Rising.
Fear hums in my ears
But the swing obeys my rhythm
A little higher.
A little braver.
A shadow skips below me.
At ten,
I climb.
I swing.
I soar——
The air stings, raw and wild
Like metal, sweat, and rain about to fall
It leaves me breathless.
Wind tears through me
It howls rip past my ears like a wild beast
It breathes into my lungs a breath if fire and flight.
It fills my chest with a burning desire
To reach higher.
I rise in a perfect arc,
My breath caught in a hush
The swing carries me to the top.
I
let
go.
For a moment, I fly.
The sky leans in and catches me gently.
Phuong Le