“In love
it is better to rise
than to fall.”
He says,
sipping Bier
by the Spree.
I inhale,
ponder,
disagree.
I have tried my whole life
To rise above like yeasty bread
Turn my anger at the unfair
Into doughy pillows of acceptance,
strength
And better-lucks-next-times
As I swallow
an inability
to move myself freely
from city to city
state to state,
swallowing the bitter taste
of discrimination
based on
lack of car and license
assumed gender
scars on my face.
I rise above these limitations,
Frustrations and breasts
Of no transportation
Alienation
and trying to reduce myself
to an object
of desire.
By rising so high and so far
Airplane across Atlantic
Through the stars
To land and refresh
Lose my armor toward duress
Open to confusion in a country where
Once hunted
Now nobody knows me
Nobody that is
Except the children on the S-Bahn
Pointing and smiling
At plaid pants and dopey grin
They can see
I have ceased to try
To fit in
I am just me and
Terrified in the grocery store
Have to ask the cashier, to repeat the price twice
My ears stuck
In a homeland
Which is no longer my home
I rise like wind waves
Once small ripples
Over miles I grow and crash
Back down to earth
Collecting dreams like surfers on my back
Searching for the perfect curl
Wetsuits and longboards
Trapped in the tendrils
Of my wild and unwashed hair
I have done enough rising
I am Mount Kilamanjaro
Tanzania in the snow
That damn story Hemingway wrote
In between drinks.
My wings
They are tired.
When I imagine love
I want to swan dive
To fall
Dropping like a dead duck
As the floor boards disappear
From under my feet
To be trusting
Unafraid
As my velocity
Toward Earth
Builds
And hope
Just hope
That someone
Is there
To catch me.
-H.
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