Start late, pack
the essentials: bread,
two half-red apples, your wood-
handled pocketknife,
block of salty cheese, the bottle
of red wine. The knife
the essentials: bread,
two half-red apples, your wood-
handled pocketknife,
block of salty cheese, the bottle
of red wine. The knife
as corkscrew—we plunge the blade
as far as the neck will hold it,
spend the rest of that day on the trail
sucking on pieces of soaked cork.
By then I had a habit of trying to fly
and stopped at every cliff
along the way, though you, it turns out—
afraid of heights. I took care
to line my toes neatly against the edge
above the blaring North Sea and spread
my wings though birds
will dive right off, they hardly know
the land ends. The apple cores I flung
over the side traced the arcs I’d spend years
trying to fit myself to: the trajectory
of flight. I graphed the jump I’d need
to get down the cliff without lifting
my wings. You uncap
your camera, say, Spit out that cork
before you leap. Could you make your arms
look less like you’re on the cross?
