every day after school i crumple on the stairs,
assuming a position as if i’ve finally landed after
falling all day. my head creases bird-like to my
clavicle, my hands stretch to the landing, my feet
tuck into the backs of my knees. today was the slowest
slow motion drop yet. it was not so much falling but
more a subdued loss of grip (can you see the clouds
calling in my eyes?) a gentle decline, a natural
dwindling of a will to hold on.

finding a high place to descend from was easy.
there are many: the world’s mountain high wishes
(it’s 11:11, should i wish for wings?), a cliff of worry
and a tower of lies. with so many places to practice
falling, grace has begun to settle in my solid bones,
bones not meant for the air (has the sky painted
my iris yet? is my pupil a cirrostratus cloud?
could i become a bird?) this is starting to feel
effortless. all that i need is a catcher to uncrumple me,
to fold me out.

a catcher running in the whispering grasses,
looking to the sky. a catcher who will be
the mediator between me and the atmosphere.
a catcher who can understand why my skin
trembles, crying that i can only fall.