A New Poem

Building Parachutes

Rule #1

Use sturdy material.

Not construction paper, not jelly skin, not shag rug, not sewed together banana peels, not homework, not 8 by 10 pictures from picture day, not dishtowel, not scabs, not underwear, not ball caps, not unstringed mittens, not Valentine card, not broken snow shovel, not Mom’s dress, not egg carton, not golf ball guts, not floormats.

Try fitted sheet. Try grocery bag. Try Camaro car cover.

Warning: make sure sheet is not tear wet, make sure there are grocery bags coming home, make sure the sky is clear of tattling rain, make sure there is a game on, make sure

Rule #2

Find a high enough place.

Think of near death, of way up but not way down
Think swingset, tree, garage
Think like Evil Knievel, think like Spiderman
Think where your broken ankle yell won’t bring Him
Think bird, think dandelion ride
Think where you won’t roll into the highway
Think about the other kids’ faces
Think your skin kite thin, you feather light
Think where She can find you

Ex: Say you need the ladder for the baseball in the gutter.
Ex: Don’t make eye contact with the belt on the way out.

Rule # 3

Jump out and away.

That singular feeling comes, wind tunneling whirlpool of ice, you are lightness and heaviness, plummeting…and catch! The wind pulls at your hand and guides you out, over the maple boughs, over your house. See Her cook Stroganoff heavy enough for him to taste. See Him drink beer eight. See your brothers and sister play that tilted version of House. Now up! You now faster than sound, than the speed of your life.

Ill: A boy riding a sunspot.

James Best