Not Like Flying

It never really feels like flying,

though this is a thing we like to say

about it and I was sent flying once

by the driver of a green SUV

who failed to heed a stop sign

at a clearly marked intersection

where I had right of way.

We don’t ride like the wind

either, though I remember

one very windy day riding

on a wide road by the lake,

cherry trees in effulgent bloom

and me pedaling amid a riot

of pink petals like a character

in one of those French musicals

from the 1960s where the shopgirl

and her lover reunite in the final reel

and I was the wind and the petals

and the shopgirl and the lover

and the sun flashing off the water.

No. It’s the tug of Earth’s core.

The wheel of objects in space

and time. Mass and distance

interacting with the flex and strain

of ligament and tendon; hamstring,

glute, and calf. The heart. The heart

most of all. Just as you crest the long hill

and right before you start the steep descent,

there’s a moment when gravity and exertion

are in equilibrium and it all falls away—

the clamoring voices, the night sweats,

the vertigo. That’s when you feel it.

Silence not words. The dark spaces

within. That’s when you know

there’s a center, still,

to everything

after all.

Todd Campbell is a speechwriter, poet, and mosaic artist based in Seattle where he has lived for the past three decades. His poetry has appeared in Pangyrus, Poet Lore, Reed Magazine, Tar River Poetry, Watershed, and elsewhere. Instagram: @camptoddbell; toddcampbellpoetry.com