I have memories
of being in echelon
which means that at one time
I must have flown

I can feel
where wings connected
between biceps and pectorals
the backward sweep of deltoids
to where flight would have taken hold
like a clamp

we hang low in the pocket in the rush of fresh air
hundreds of feet high in a V across calibrated
stagger as if random we bank in a frolic
as one gaining air on the others steep turns
tightly so much torque but our bodies are made
for bending flexing near breaking

Our hearts are different
not so resilient, they snap
because they’re unforgiving

Chagall 2016

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