It’s not necessary to breathe
Forever is a long time
Your head is on the moon
– They Might Be Giants, “In the Nightgown of the Sullen Moon”
I heard they had a space program
When they sing you can’t hear, there’s no air
– They Might Be Giants, “Angel”
I learned to juggle
with three gossamer scarves
salvaged from a thrift-store table,
long fraying teal and square
purple brocade in arcs with the third,
plain white and scarred
with solutes left once the water had dried.
All three so reluctant to fall
I knotted their middles
like shuttlecocks, snitches,
still easy to keep from the ground.
They plummet like plates
away from the air, set to strike
at my feet as I scramble from flight
to flight, grasp at rolled hems,
loosed threads, my mind divided
from even the thought of impossible breath.