What do I know about flight
but that in Superior, I fear it?
My feet scramble for
her stony floor, but my cousins
—air-boned, limbs fluent
as skipping rocks—glide in.
Our teacher says Laika the Dog
flew into space and flies there still,
a star; but I know that stars
are gas burning with particles,
and dogs are dogs that freeze
or drown, pinned down
by airlessness. My cousins
bob and dive, and, when
Superior’s arm strikes coast,
they’re gone. I toe-count
one pebble for each intrepid kid
and mongrel lost, unsleeping,
in her frigid galaxy. But
look: Suddenly, cousins
jettison themselves free,
a growling pack of stars.