Harriet circles a lighthouse outside Boston.
A sudden gust tips the tail, and she drops
from the cockpit in her purple suit,
tumbles head first as her Blériot
glides into the marsh.
Sun lacquers its wings.
Reporters ask: As a woman
who has just watched
another woman die, will I stop flying?
Certainly not.
Linc says Harriet must have fainted,
going 100 miles an hour,
speeding down from 5,000 feet,
a light, delicate woman,
the terrific rush of air
was too much for her.
Fainted? Take that back.