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What did you think love would be like?
      by Susan Schaefer McDevitt

  Your plane is flying at 14,000 feet
and you’ve packed your own chute
and tested each harness, never mind
you’re pee-in-your-pants afraid
of heights and never mind
you’re about to jump,
and this isn’t from the roof
of your parents’ garage,
there’s no red S on your chest
but if you don’t jump
you never will
and for all your sassy mouth
you’ll be nothing but the girl
who read a book about love
and turned down the corners
of the page where the heroine’s
heart leapt when the lover touched
her face, and with 14,000 feet
to fall there’s time to make-it-right,
to dig out courage and dust it off
for what’s coming up as you fall
takes more guts than merely stepping
out into nothing but a few clouds
assembled to watch the gentle curve
of the earth, impossibly sexy,
waiting below, land almost beckoning.
The first hit of air to your lungs
is enough to sober you up
from any romantic thought
you have. You widen you arms
and spread your legs because
it’s the only thing to slow your fall
as the green rushes toward you,
never mind you could die
right there and then and your fear
tastes metallic, your white-knuckles
tear at the rip cord and the canopy opens,
you’re blown up into the sky
as if snatched from the mouth
of your own cries and you drop
steadily, feet first downward
with your heart in your throat
and in that moment you know
that you can’t wait
to do it again,
to go up in that plane
to 14,000 feet and step out,
step out all over again.

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