NaPM April 08 2016

[milo]

In Bonniebrae a field is split by kills
and hedged by thickets on the southern side,
a vagrant patch of long untended graves
and then the darkest forest man has known.

On a Spring day with wind just strong enough
to bloom a sail and launch a skiff we gathered -

a score of us to test our skills at flying
kites like fauns perform a mating dance.
I brought the finest kite you’ll ever see -
a hand-painted red komodo dragon
with double wires and a twenty-five foot tail.

I slowly let her up and gave her reign
then deftly pulled her aft to paint the sky.
I spent two hours teaching her to roll
and slowly build to form a somersault.

Then sometime after noon we traded places
and I was high above and breeching clouds -
a just-fledged falcon drunk on swoops and dives,
I spun and dipped held only by my line.

But fickle kites don’t have the nerve for kiting
as men don’t have the buoyancy to fly
so who’s to say whose fault, the bridle buckled,
the guy wire snapped, I keeled and then I tumbled
back home, my body broke against the ground.