KIRK, COMING DOWN

KIRK, COMING DOWN

Here on highway 6, between my feet, they've marked with orange spray-paint, the spot where you

landed. Down there, by the tall grass is where they say you were hit. The paper said the man driving just

fell asleep for a moment, and your bike was clearly over on the shoulder. Now, it's just a matter of the

settlement, no one's pressing charges. They've marked your departure point and where you came to rest, but in

between: twenty-five feet of nothing but air and time.

One track meet in

Middleschool

I came out during the rain to watch

you jump.

It was cold

you stripped off

your sweats

down to nothing but your

tank-top and shorts.

Your shoes looked too heavy

swinging on the ends

of your long skinny legs

and you bounced them

on the runway

shifting your weight back

and forth.

You paced off your approach

for the last jump

marked a takeoff point

by placing a wet twig

at the end

of the crescent you

measured.

I stood as the rain became deafening

on the surface

of the nylon mat.

This'll be the last jump of the day coach said.

You hit the twig

and lifted up into the

rain

against a thousand

tiny droplets

stretching back, your arm

out

your eyes fierce

and peering back

over your shoulder.

Your torso snapped like a whip

making a loop

of your legs

that unfurled itself

an inch above the bar

and slung your

sneakers up and over.

Look at him fly

just look at him fly

and it seemed

like you'd never come down.

Then you did,

you cleared

the bar, hit the mat

and slid, sending a sheet

of thin rain arching like

tempered glass in front of our

eyes.