At Eight Years Old We Almost Flew

I feel the burn of my knees pinch the seat

of my bike, the street that turns

suddenly steep — a downhill gasp the quick thought I

might die like this:

                            skin-soft. And gravel — hot

sharp sidewalks catscratching skin.

                                                          Before they are whole those hard thoughts are past.

They are from the earth,

which I leave behind.

Hands like wings, my flattened fingers cut

through singing summer air, bare-armed elbows straight

as planes wings, me and Anthony, who says

with care, don’t fall,  his words upweighted with his love.

Standing lightly only on the pedals, I am like

the air: a whirling summer thunderstorm

warm-thundering, whooshing, and

I am the blue of summer sky, the feathering

clouds, the sun speaking summer, the pure air

saying, this will be forever.

And it was — it was all I knew

at eight. It was everything:

the sidewalks and streets and lawns and all the open space

between my house and here. It would last forever.