Falling for Gravity*

(a poem, by Joanell Serra)

(1)

on the day that gravity broke

kindergarteners laughed

waving their arms like blue birds

reaching for their swimming goldfish crackers

an older boy — almost twelve –

recognized the Icarusonian nature

of their choice

tossed jump-rope lassos to the sky

an east village physics professor

the first to grasp the new order

soaked his shoes in freshly poured cement

and strode down Houston Street

the neighborhood drug dealer

yelled down for help

haloed

by tiny bags of white powder

the structures we relied upon-

suspension bridges

the tides

the weight of oppression

the thrill of roller coasters

all rendered meaningless

(2)

people have learned to hold on

to visit one another

swinging through the canopies

of oak trees in central park

belaying from apartment balconies,

rooftop gardens

and theatre signs on 42ncd Street

clipped to decaying telephone lines

occasionally someone departs

from despair

or perhaps accidentally

letting go long enough to cover a cough

we stop to watch

rocks tied to our waists

tears floating up

hearts heavy, while limbs grow lighter

in a true reversal

pregnant women have it easier

they move like ballet dancers

down the grocery store aisles

as if we’re all meant

to carry another person inside us

to tether ourselves

to the next generation

to strike

the perfect balance

of blood and bone

love and liquid

• Published in Gold Man Review, Issue 11, 2021