Hawking in Zero-G

,

.

At the peak of the arc, you sail

in the weightless freight of your body

stiff arms crossed like a mummy.

The 727’s apogee

disables gravity, and

your face goes nova-bright.

Laid down again for the dive,

still grinning as the plane careens

through eight full swoops and

swoons. Joy as loud as terror.

Someone lets loose a Red Delicious,

and Newton’s apple crests, the praxis

of ballistic art. Forget the errors

spooled down the helix. Forget

the withering that hobbled

limbs and chest, bobble head,

atrophy, slumped in the claw

of a wheelchair on stage, your canned

voice calling to the universe.

In zero-g, the heart

is as round as an orb. Space

here I come, stocked

with star clusters like relief

ganglia to repair your shorted

lines. On the plane,

the preagreed signal was

a grimace for stop

or your eyebrows raised

for keep going & you never

put them down.