by Aaron Glover

Someone has lobbed me, somehow
imagined me a thing broad and flat
and now, ignored by neglected scrub
and green patches below, only a dog notices,
shouting me down for my impossibility.

I have never left the earth, nor dreamed
of this; I do not even know the word.
Are onions made for the air? As wind
teases roguish at my paper thin skin,
I doubt seriously this was intended.

Still, what joy! What life! And though the dog
has alerted gravity, and I am snatched
from ascent, I find the ground welcomes
me from my odyssey, and forever after,
we whisper about what is truly impossible.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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