i once jumped out of an airplane.
yeah, i was with others who all thought the air would save us, even though it had no eyes and hands to hold us tight and close, loving each of us who dared to trust the ropes and cloth that could have been laundered and folded neatly by some woman who never watched television or ate pizza. i asked many times but no one told me about the little dog inside me who fell out the window. we barked and howled, but not all the way down. there was no siren, no alarm bell, only the grassy hills and an arrow on the ground pointing at something. i don’t remember anymore at what, just like the professor down in front trying to explain something. i was wearing a white jumpsuit, and i made sure to use the outhouse often enough so that the jumpsuit wouldn’t change colors at the sudden mad moment when i let go of the strut and saw the wing get smaller and smaller. the wind nearly blew off my glasses. i now know why paratroopers in the movies yell “geronimo!” when they jump — so no one hears the little dogs bark. i think i saw a white flower when i got done with falling. i looked around to make sure i wasn’t on fire. later i heard tall grasses tell their adventure stories. it was so long ago the trees don’t remember many times i looked carefully at the dirt when i practiced dying. — oakland july 2017
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