by Gerald Huml
The bank light does us no good,
too bright on our faces, too bright
on the glass revolving door turning
counterclockwise slow and deliberate.
Dark Carrara marble veins the walls.
I try following the thin designs
from top to bottom but get lost
in the finer choices.
Between the felt crowd-control lines
our shoes wait on commercial loop carpet.
I follow behind a young woman
dressed for serious business,
vermillion dress suit with gold buttons,
heels shifting their weight often.
She looks at her bracelet watch and sighs
up to the bank light, eyes closed, and breathes.
We both should be in a plane
climbing the air at a 30 degree angle,
the rolled haystacks dotting the fields
growing smaller with each loud second.
After leveling off and a wide turn
I open the pressurized door
to the abyss of sunlight and blue sky,
the blast of air jumping our heart rates.
We move some more, and I round
another turn in the line.
It cannot be much longer.
A man behind me reads the paper
folded down twice, his tie
a muted tropical scene.
The young woman sighs again,
her ringed hands tucked under elbows.
The pilot gives us the thumbs up. It is time.
This is the woman’s first jump,
so we are attached by harness and bolts.
At the door her hands clutch the frame.
The view is too much.
I tell her we do not have to do this,
but she shakes her head.
I place my hands over hers and gently
release her grip. I lean forward and we are
free, two Hindu gods in consort flying to earth,
arms, legs, and heads splayed weightless
against the force of air, 120 miles per hour.
She is next in the bank line. All I see
are her long maroon nails and how
the second hand of her watch makes its slow journey.
It cannot be much longer.
