Hugh, a town fool.
Long ago earned
our family nickname,
The Half-Doors,
by jumping from a cliff,
with half a door tied to each arm.
Earned it by trying to fly.
By breaking both legs.
And by surviving, smiling.
My great-uncle
liked to hang glide,
he glided off the same cliff,
foolishly, one windy day.
Crashed.
And broke both ankles.
I have climbed other cliffs,
near the coast,
and I have nearly fallen.
I thought I would only have
broken a toe, or two,
or drifted to a seat in a tree,
as I have flight in my genes.
Though I'd maybe have
burst my head half open.
Hugh, that halfwit,
such faith he put,
into his own two arms.
It's good to know that
some ancestors were maniacs
and village idiots.
At least they were not bored men,
nor fearful men.
At least they flew before they fell.
It's good to know
that there's a crimson, insane,
tint in my blood.
A spark of chaos,
to unhinge me always
so I never sit too straight,
so I'm never shut up, closed.
听
听
听 |
