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by Reyzl Grace

Barn’s burnt down / now I can see the moon.
– Mizuta Masahide (1657–1723)


Feet clutching canvas,
I sidle a bit farther
from open cockpit,
locked controls no man
now holds. No man flew before
our generation,
but women held on
as ground came out from under
their feet. Nothing new

under the sun. I rise
higher and my heels shrink
to talons, as though
the wing were a bird
caught midflight. I'm unsure who
is lifting whom now.
I have forgotten
the crowd. I reach past the edge
of the wing. Up here,
no pointing hand casts
tow ropes on my eyes, tethers
me to memory
of ground. I’m falling,
I’m flying, I am on fire
and see past them all.

Reyzl Grace is a transfemme Ashkenazi poet, essayist, and librarian working in both English and Yiddish. Her writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and included in So to Speak, Rust & Moth, Crow & Cross Keys, and elsewhere. Look for her in the mastheads of Cordella Magazine and Psaltery & Lyre, at, and on Twitter @reyzlgrace. Her favorite maenad is Chalcomede.

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