I had a dream I could fly. –Priscilla Ahn
The Blue Angels leave five white tracks overhead.
They are going eight hundred miles per hour,
the announcer says. Below them, I am going
nowhere. They fly closer to each other than my knees
are to the pier. Eighteen inches apart. What to make
of these details. The announcer spills them
through the radio like my brother’s dog
spills the half empty beer beneath the lawn chair.
It seems important, noteworthy, but later,
these points will not touch me the way your hands would.
It is more something to nod at, to say back and forth
to each other, to marvel at aloud. As if it could
bring us closer together, this trading of numbers
and shaking of heads. But the day is warm
and the body can’t help but tremble when the jets push
through the blue above us, displacing sound
and rearranging the air. It is not the speed
that impresses me or even the nearness
of wingtip to nose, but the way that over two million
of us have gathered to watch them fly
in close triangles and peel apart again.
How we long for greatness, how we’re drawn
to the fastest, the loudest, the best. How we long
to come together, to connect. I am not
the best, love. I am tired, getting old. I am
wrinkled and sun-speckled, forgetful and soft.
I am no longer fast, was never the fastest.
I am not strong. I’m defeated. I’m less.
But I am open to love, to being still.
I am ready to drop the stream of facts
and touch (is it possible) what is left.