Transcript

I’m Major Jackson and this is The Slowdown.

Last night, I had another dream of flying. Like other nights, I hovered, just slightly above the earth’s surface with not a care in the world before lifting off. My first dream of flying occurred when I was twelve years old. I was smitten with a girl in my class, Rhonda, who lived three blocks over. I had talked to her four or five times on our way to school. She seemed shy like me, so I asked my friend Lloyd to include her in his next comic book. Lloyd drew superhero comics featuring himself and his two best friends, Calvin and me. We were his sidekicks with our own superpowers. Every Friday just before the final bell of the week, Mrs. Nesmith, our teacher, had Lloyd stand before the class and read out loud his next episode.

Earlier that day, running up behind her, I told Rhonda I asked Lloyd to include her as part of “The Captains of Truth.” That afternoon, she beamed from across the room to hear herself as a character, and said after class that I could walk with her to school from now on.

That evening, just before falling fully asleep, I experienced the terrifying yet distinct sensation of rising and floating above our street. I recall the houses and parked cars getting smaller, the familiar sight of a church spire but now at eye-level. I slowly flew in the direction of our house but do not ever recall landing.

I subscribe to the notion of dreams as our subconscious acting out wish-fulfillment or deeply embedded fears. But I also see dream-flying as a form of emotional ascension like I experienced, having made Rhonda feel a little more seen. The speaker in today’s epistolary poem turns to the hummingbird as an avatar of their own wish to soar.

My Dearest Black-Billed Streamertail
by Michelle Whittaker

Apparently, we have chosen 
to spend our lives in semi-solitude, 
 
studying the intimacies 
of caverns and coastlines.
 
Years ago, The Daily Gleaner remarked
how the Arawak called you a warrior god,
 
but my Auntie calls you a thirsty
'doctor' with a photographic memory.
 
I wonder which you would prefer to be, 
craving nectar as much as you need water.
 
I can imagine why my ancestors plucked away
your emerald feathers from the flank of your body,
 
but I hold my compulsion to my chest 
like a fist crumpling up an unsent love letter. 
 
Instead, these hands brim with gratitude,
shredding black tupelo leaves into compost 
 
readying for the season where the bluebonnets
bring forth narrow spikes of light.
 
Don’t we crave conversation 
as much as we desire attraction? 
 
I even talk to the Malabar vines wilted 
around a broken violin under my writing desk.
 
I talk bright & constantly in my yard. 
 
The bright & constant distinctly align 
with Polaris during late night walks.
 
Sometimes we follow our instincts
as much as we desire facts.
 
Don’t we crave staring at the horizon 
as much as we long to hover? 

Can you teach me the illusion of holding still?
Can you teach my malignant masses
 
nestled against my uterine walls 
how not to heart-attack?
 
or at least how not to fear the flight?

"My Dearest Black-Billed Streamertail" by Michelle Whittaker. Used by permission of the poet.