Letters levitate above any expanse of air — like this
paper version of clouds: misted vision
with you flying through.
Gravity holds your seventy-five years to flight
not falling, a fact I grab onto
with fear and fearlessness. What really keeps us up
in these spheres together, the sun
behind us, casting shadows?
Words buoy belief, rise
to the highest level or plummet,
a catapulting plane with unknown cargo
like my own stalled words
on a pot-holed highway
when my son cries out, “What’s worse — if God
dies? Or I die? Or Grandma?”
Rebellious at five, he’s unfastened
his seatbelt, the what that holds him to the speed
we’re traveling, that keeps us linked together
on this spinning world, trying
to glide on and above
the heaviest answers.
What can I do but stop moving,
try to make him safe,
then listen for your plane
passing over, held up by what
I cannot see.
Marjorie Maddox is professor of English and creative writing at Lock Haven University in Pennsylvania, and author of 11 collections of poetry. Find more of her poetry at marjoriemaddox.com.
