my small hand anchored in Abuelo’s palm

five men, with my skin, my nose, my eyes

ascend a cloud-piercing pole

one for each cardinal point

one at the center

my heart thrums with the whistle’s cry

syncopating with the drum’s earthen voice

the standing Volador is a bird-

man balancing on one foot

his perch is no wider than a tortilla

I grip tighter as ropes uncoil

four bodies suspended by tradition

— they— make the sun trace one more golden arc across the sky

Abuelo, they’ll fall I say

with a voice as thin as the rope that holds them

but they fly, arms outstretched,

circling thirteen times, one for each heaven

the world blurs

something inside me knows this is the way

the only way the only truth

when their feet touch the ground

I breathe again, look up to find Abuelo’s eyes on me

smiling a ¿ya ves que no pasó nada?

in this spinning chaos of migration

his hand is just as strong as that rope

[holding me]

just as strong as that rope

[reminding]

just as strong as that rope

[shouting]

I was born in a land where people fly.