It was a tremendous fall:
From the height of the hay bales,
Stacked two stories high, to the floor
Of the barn and the bicycle that broke
The fall and nearly my neck.
I prefer not to think about how close I came.
The scar, a tiny spot of weaker flesh
Shaped like a distant crescent moon,
Remains, as does the barn;
But the hay bales are gone.
I expected to see them still
There, and myself caught midair,
Pudgy childhood hands, shirt
Flapping and exposing skin tanned
By a reckless summer. Me, suspended
Forever, before the bruise and the poultice
Of stinging herbs.
I’d walk under me, pretend
To catch me, poke at my smaller limbs,
Try to recognize my face
Full of its incredulous joy and fear, even try
To pull me down
From that ridiculous frozen flailing position.
But no proof remains that I ever flew.
Just that once a bicycle stopped my face.
No evidence of anything tremendous,
Except the way my eyes avoid a spot
Precisely 17 feet and 4 inches above the floor,
3 yards from the tool rack’s
Southern edge, right under
The rafter I missed, a spot
Roughly boy-shaped and soaring.

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