fingernail painter, Southside sharecropper

plugged in to a short-circuit circus; Lone

 Star Chicago momma renovating sisters’ hair

but never even getting a bite out of more to life,

 with a Great-War-vet, wing-nut brother (part owner

of an out-of-bounds mouth) squinched back in civilian

 life (like the Brogue hole boots that choked his toes)

who snapped: “Bess, women in France are far ahead

 of those heads you aim to prettify.” Hunchbacked

breath and moonshine sassed, he habityou-a-lee

 humiliated Bess at her hen coop. “Them

mademoiswells could fly, too!” There, a dare

 Bessie couldn’t sidestep. When the Windy

City denied Bess lessons or lift, the Black press

 picked up her tab for par le vouz flight training

at Federation Aeronautique International. Queen Bess

 premiere certified African-American female flyer, learning

further on the tarmacs of croissants and krauts. Back state-

 side, surplus-Jenny barnstormer, hot-damn air-show

performer, she was now a decked-out Sky to 5,

 a silk belt-scarf, a tailored jodhpur, a jacketed-

t-strap, scrunched under a Sam-Browne cap.

 B.C.—her initials—always whispered amen

to the air. On the ground, she was a manicured

 public relations parachute who, with airshow acumen,

spread the gospel of flight, standing before black-

 boards—in segregated classrooms (save a token

sliver of “of-course” white chalk)—dropping in

 on Sunday’s getting-up-greats to preach air—

an avenue with side streets Negroes could high-step

 on. Cause that air. Don’t care. Who is. Up there.