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Dispensation, II: You Did Marry Her. And Ten Years Later . . .
Ian Haight
 

​Your dog runs alongside the gravel road to
your wooden-planked house, his
 
cinnamon-copper coat shifting with the light through 
leaves of maples as he approaches, tongue
 
lolling, tail wagging. The children run with him.
To celebrate your anniversary
 
you decide to fly up 
in a helicopter and jump. Lift off 
 
from the ’copter platform everyone’s 
elbows knees and hips padded and 
 
eyes goggled heads helmeted the 
dog sitting between 
 
velour seats. At the proper height you all jump, the children 
first somersaulting once twice four
 
times falling fast and then slow 
with turns and twists of arms 
 
and legs. A thrill to have the world’s
mountains and rivers far below.
 
A city’s glass-covered concrete 
towers rise slowly toward everyone’s feet.
 
The eldest child pulls first
the chute doesn’t open he looks at 
 
you, pulls the safety chute it doesn’t open
you grip him bracing for impact 
 
he clutches you, arms looped in the pack’s bands
you pull your cord the chute opens
 
everyone drifts into bay waters of the city.
The youngest child can’t swim.
 
The helicopter’s rotors don’t 
slow when it enters water, pilot-window-first, the air 
 
and thrown froth splashing your faces. 
Smoke rises though the wrecked
 
engine’s body sinks beneath waves.
Together with your wife, you swim 
 
to shore, kids on your backs. Holding 
hands, you’ve left the helicopter company offices
 
in the country, begun
walking a dirt road for home
 
when the day manager runs  
out, gives you 
 
a souvenir DVD 
and a plate of gumdrops.
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