by Theric Jepson
Reading May Swenson
who loved moonshots
I learn that the Wright brother
who flew
lay facedown
his hips in a saddle.
He would wiggle his hips
to move the rudder
and steer through the few feet
of sky through which he passed.
I too have shot the moon
lying facedown
upon you
moving our hips
to fly away together.
But now I sit under
suburban redwoods
as they shadow the street
and pairs of women
walk by talking.
I don’t know if May Swenson
ever walked the
streets of Berkeley
as we have.
But she spoke too much of space
not to know what it means to fly
with the likes of you.
And she was human, wasn’t she?
We all move our hips
and hope to fly.