elevating

the troposphere feels like the ground, except your parents are yelling and the dog is barking both more than usual

okay, you think, this is neat, though; you’ve never seen anyone else float before or wiggle their toes above their head as they rise

you move to text your boyfriend about it, until you realize you've left your phone on earth. oh well

your neighbor, standing next to your parents asks "where does she think she's going"

he's always been a bit slow, and creepy. even now he's just staring at you. hasn't he ever seen an upside-down girl before

whatever - soon you'll reach the clouds. you loved clouds, back when you memorized their names from a poster on the wall of second grade homeroom.

cumulonimbus. nimbostratus. great names for indie bands, all of them

a chattering flock of robins cascades along your ribs and you spread your arms and wonder if, when you inhale, the clouds will snake into your nostrils a hit off the celestial vape

and a fun visual for a snapchat post. or, at least, it could have been. oh well

or maybe the wisps will encircle your ears instead, you think, as pressure intensifies at your temples and silence layers upon itself, a rainbow-cake void, deader as the planet gets smaller

but when you do hit a cloud, it’s a half-formed cirrus cleared in a blink of crummy fog. life is a sequence of disappointments, you think, sagely

fifty kilometers high and an hour later, in the mesosphere, the air cracks and chills to curdle your veins and thicken your blood;

if you could tweet right now, you'd tell everyone never to try this: "floating is boring" would be the caption, below an image of the blank black

an irritable sigh escapes you and slashes at your lungs like a rock skipped over shallow water; instead of breathing you busy yourself counting meteorites that tumble past, downward as they catch silent flame

and disintegrate. oh well

oceans and mountains lie flat before you like elementary-school cardboard dioramas. so small yet so great, how wondrous

you just want a blanket

at the mesopause it is lonely, one hundred kilometers above your confused parents and their half-blind corgi lonely as everywhere else in stupid space, you think; you've learned so much so quickly

your fingers are numb and bloated you couldn’t text even if you had your phone

your intestines have unraveled, flapping like the limbs of advertising balloon dancers atop car dealerships

earth is a watercolor smear; you want some tylenol and a nap. the thin air’s making you delirious, but not enough to cause trippy hallucinations:

no angels or ghosts, no hunky astronauts, nothing

this, you say through lips inflated to elephant trunks, is lame

when you hit one-hundred-twenty kilometers, barely a third through the thermosphere (jesus, who cares which sphere anyway), the low pressure stretches and pops you like a long blister

and the slimy remainder of you hurtles back to earth as a clump of heavenly bird droppings thank god