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Moon Ascent
@alons, ce sera pour la derniere fois@
Sophie Blanchard 1819
a metaphor of the sea sings no music,
no swell here, to swing the stern;
nor any pressure to float a kite:
there is no 'flight' to the moon,
no wing can carry me.
At the birth of Napoleon's son I lifted
from the Champ de Mars, and from the basket scattered
a shower of papers to proclaim the birth.
clearing steeple and tree top, opening
a passage into airless geometry
where faith is translated to trajectory,
buoyancy, computation;
weight against lift; gravity versus
the pull of elsewhere.
tilt of a wickerwork floor,
creak of a cable; the flake of my dry lips
at travel's very limit: so vast the distance
that if I raised a finger behind it would vanish
the whole blue jewel of the Earth:
fireflies on an evening porch; a curtain sailing
at a summer window;
my mother bending to her linens, the remembrance of a smile
creased in her skin.
I am on the edge of the sky; I feel excellent,
my eyes filed with moonclouds, and the dark seas.
I am beginning to move away.
Sophie Blanchard, Aeronaut (1778 - 1819)
Copyright ©
Yazmin Malik
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