Gravity and Grace

The crosswalk was a painted promise,  

safety wrapped in yellow and white stripes,  

but promises are easily broken by wheels  

that rush through impatience, blind to rules.  

The van came sharp, too sharp to miss.  

A bullet disguised in the hum of tires,  

and her body, a sudden bird,  

lifted clean from the ground, betrayed by it.  

She flew without wings, an awkward arc,  

a quilt of limbs sewn mid-air,  

and as the world gasped in collective shatter,  

her voice soared above it: "Weeeeeeeeee!"  

Gravity took her back like an old lover.  

Fifteen feet melted into pavement grooves,  

but she rose anyway—smiling stupidly wide,  

brushing off dust like it was just Tuesday.  

Was she fearless? Fragile? Or both, tangled?  

The crowd stared at her, slack-jawed,  

as if they'd never seen someone fall  

and still laugh at the miracle of landing.