Terminal
for James A. Wu, 1965-2020
By
Sara Eddy
In a stable, belly to earth
position, terminal velocity
of the human body is about
120 mph. A freefly, head
down position offers
speed of around 150-180.
How fast, though, when the heart
stops and a body falls forward, like
the end of time, like
it loves the pavement? how many
pounds per square inch?
When an object falls to the ground
the laws of gravity tell us
the entire earth gives in
just a little, adjusts
for a moment to the impact,
the moment when all the things about you
flew up into the sky, floating
together as flocked memories,
nudging a whole planet.
Coda
19 years you've been gone.
I sit on the couch,
listen to your records
Albéniz, Alberti, Albinoni,
methodical, like you.
Book down, I close my eyes.
I feel the weight of you settle
at the other end of the couch.
corduroy, orchids, solace
I keep my eyes shut.
A Mailman Passes
First-day covers, media mail, hazardous-liquid-perishable,
forever stamps in your bag now expired. All the dogs,
Coco, Pookie, Hank, nose the fence gaps for treats that won’t come.
Old ladies sleep on porches, and no one comes to flirt with them,
no one brings them back to themselves. No one carries
packages up the stairwell for the fourth floor guy with a bum leg.
Baby-dreams lost, too, of every child that drew you in crayon
and dreamed of wearing that noble blue, joining their own hands
to that lacey web of work—letters in hands handed to hands over
miles, work ennobled by your belief that people will keep
reaching across land and sea to say Wish You Were Here.
Sara Eddy’s full-length poetry collection, Ordinary Fissures, was released by Kelsay Books in May 2024. She is also the author of two chapbooks (Tell the Bees, A3 Press, 2019, and Full Mouth, Finishing Line Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in many online and print journals, including Threepenny Review, Raleigh Review, Sky Island, and Baltimore Review, among others. She lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, in a house built by Emily Dickinson’s cousin.
for James A. Wu, 1965-2020
By
Sara Eddy
In a stable, belly to earth
position, terminal velocity
of the human body is about
120 mph. A freefly, head
down position offers
speed of around 150-180.
How fast, though, when the heart
stops and a body falls forward, like
the end of time, like
it loves the pavement? how many
pounds per square inch?
When an object falls to the ground
the laws of gravity tell us
the entire earth gives in
just a little, adjusts
for a moment to the impact,
the moment when all the things about you
flew up into the sky, floating
together as flocked memories,
nudging a whole planet.
Coda
19 years you've been gone.
I sit on the couch,
listen to your records
Albéniz, Alberti, Albinoni,
methodical, like you.
Book down, I close my eyes.
I feel the weight of you settle
at the other end of the couch.
corduroy, orchids, solace
I keep my eyes shut.
A Mailman Passes
First-day covers, media mail, hazardous-liquid-perishable,
forever stamps in your bag now expired. All the dogs,
Coco, Pookie, Hank, nose the fence gaps for treats that won’t come.
Old ladies sleep on porches, and no one comes to flirt with them,
no one brings them back to themselves. No one carries
packages up the stairwell for the fourth floor guy with a bum leg.
Baby-dreams lost, too, of every child that drew you in crayon
and dreamed of wearing that noble blue, joining their own hands
to that lacey web of work—letters in hands handed to hands over
miles, work ennobled by your belief that people will keep
reaching across land and sea to say Wish You Were Here.
Sara Eddy’s full-length poetry collection, Ordinary Fissures, was released by Kelsay Books in May 2024. She is also the author of two chapbooks (Tell the Bees, A3 Press, 2019, and Full Mouth, Finishing Line Press, 2020), and her poems have appeared in many online and print journals, including Threepenny Review, Raleigh Review, Sky Island, and Baltimore Review, among others. She lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, in a house built by Emily Dickinson’s cousin.
