To banish fear, she learns how to fly.

Like Lady Godiva, wearing only goggles
and a leather helmet,
she climbs into the cockpit of a Learjet.

She cranks up the jet engine
and lets it churn and churn,
warming up its secret parts.

When the engine is hot enough
to burn, she taxis down the runway.

Sparks fly around the sound of the nozzle,
like a swarm of fireflies. Pulling back on her joystick,
throttle full ahead, the plane lifts off the ground.

Under the eye of the moon, she hears sounds
of a whistling crescendo of nightingales
singing to solitary souls in need of tenderness.

As she pierces the cold night air,
pain melts away, ending a lifetime
of loneliness and despair.

She flies faster and faster, her delicate touch
on the controls.
She purrs in tune with the hum of the engine.

Exhilarated by the lightness of being,
she squeals with delight, never wanting
to come down to the eyes on the ground.

She floats in a bouquet of silence
over nuzzled white clouds.

Cemented by cosmic dust to the stars,
she’s in awe of an endless horizon,
savoring a taste of honey on her tongue.

With no abyss to fall off,
being dead doesn’t scare her anymore.