FLIGHT

Over the years my father convinced himself

That he’d never woken hovering over his bed

Still, he wondered.

My mother had an ancestor named Aaron

Who weighted his pockets with stones

To avoid floating off.

Savonarola’s jailers found him asleep in his cell

Gently bumping against the ceiling.

They burned him anyway.

When King Sweeney recovered his wits

He ceased being able to fly. When I go mad

I will remember this.


(And then, an old poem about the King:

You think, perhaps, that it is easy to be mad;

“Farewell, Reason! I’m off; I’ve slipped your chain.”

I tell you it is not. Three years, seven months,

Six days I have followed Sweeny, who was King

And now lives in trees. Madness, like much else,

Takes practice. For the first six months, Sweeny

Could understand never a word the birds said

And feared their endless tweeting would drive him sane.

He could fly as soon as he and reason parted

But was clumsy at it, crashing into trees,

Perching awkwardly at night, liable to fall.

He flies well now; threading through the forest

Listening to the curlews and laughing at their jokes

(His courtesy is royal; curlews’ humor is dull).

His dreams tell him he will be king again

Unable to flutter a foot above the ground.

I prepare against that day.)