Poetry by Jane Zwart

Gravity is not quite a pair
of cement shoes, but to decamp
from the planet

you have to kick off
earth’s grasp; threaten flight
and something seizes

as desperately at your heels
as you would at the feet of a child,
curious and heavy-headed,

leaning over a banister.
Gravity is a shackle that rockets
whittle to an anklet

but cannot loose.
Around Christ’s ankle, a human
hair. Buzz cut, a man

lands an eagle on a coin
that always lands on heads.
Even on the moon

the wafer does not levitate.
The wine still minds the glass.
On the man’s moon boots

the moon pulls gently
and the earth more gently.
The astronaut nibbles and quaffs.

Never has he been nearer to,
never has he been farther from
his ascended Lord.

Jane Zwart teaches at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared in Poetry, The Southern Review, Threepenny Review, TriQuarterly, and Ploughshares, as well as other journals and magazines.

Photo by Nong V on Unsplash