【by Grace Fangmann】

17 December 3:34 AM; Hartford CT

First aeroplane flight – the Wright brothers, on a beach, threw
their ticking machine hearts into the air.
Sustained flight for twelve seconds:
each second squeezed time through a sieve.
Each shudder of metal made
each human heart shudder with sickness.
The plane landed roughly.
She quivered on the sand,
blinking in the late morning light
like a confused newborn lamb,
limbs thin as paper and delicate as flower stems.
Put a man in her next.
See how well she flies:
or will the added weight doom her to the sand,
ruined completely?

22 December 8:46 PM; Riverside IL

Dostoyevsky faced the firing squad, and walked away;
commutation of sentence, canceled fate.
I stood before the firing squad and watched the muzzles of rifles scoff at me;
mouths curved into an accusing vowel, they spat their fire at my soft head.
My brain splattered everywhere, a beautiful portrait of red acrylic,
blended with the wet green pastels of the grassy square;
if men knew the kind of art that pours from a burst cranium,
they would put down their paintbrushes;
I am not Dostoyevsky.

27 December 3:12 PM; Rockwall TX

I stand atop the rock and look down.
No matter how soft the water, 
my impact sends shock waves,
droplets like sparkles; earthly starlight
in the middle of the day.
A kid broke his spine, jumping from Redneck Joe;
or so said my mother: she knows things.
I cut my foot against the river-slick rock,
on my ascent;
Up so high, the river wriggles like silk.
A heavenly garment.