Man is not a bird, Wilbur observed.
The trick is to give up flapping
and rolling your own body
between the wings. You must
lie still like a cripple
and trust the gears to warp
and rudder the air
for you. You must work the levers,
give over to your intellect,
rise to objectivity, let the roar
of the motor carry you
up like a surf in your ears.
There you are, going against
everything you believe in—
the Church of the United
Brethren, a whole testament
of necks falling limp
as Sunday chickens, crazed skulls,
your relentless mother
waving her polka-dot handkerchief.
wheelchair grind you across
the sky. To someone standing
off, hosanna! you are a white bird,
a shudder, running out of ground
the way the dead shall rise.