Edward Salem: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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My Aerodynamics

As I fell from the sky, I smelled fish.

The fish was in my mouth.

My eyes were fish eyes, bulging, bugged out.

I fell like this for years,

in the fishy air. I stopped panicking.

I could think as I fell.

I missed spaghetti.

I was a model, hair blown back

in the wind. I was thirty-five.

I was fifty-three. The sun

winked at me like bar light

through a shot of whisky.

Nights were easier. I actually

fell, harhar, asleep. Five minutes

here, ten minutes there.

Open sky, open darkness.

I drank. I pissed myself.

I stripped my clothes off in the sky.

I was very cold. I hugged myself

and it changed my aerodynamics.

I began spinning out of control.

I vomited clear rain.

I refused water.

Refused breath.

I missed my daughter.

I missed my wife. I missed our home.

I missed smoking. I accepted

I’d never leave this blue prison.

How quickly my mind adjusted,

but I was dangerously bored.

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Edward Salem is the author of Monk Fruit (2025), the winner of the Nightboat Poetry Prize, and Intifadas (2026), the winner of the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry. His work has appeared in The Paris Review, The Yale Review, Granta, and elsewhere. 

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                                                     Family-owned painting by unknown artist        

Comments

[Sr. Leslie]

The rhythm of the poem and flowing lightness of it, one can easily miss those poignant lines: “I accepted/I’d never leave this blue prison./How quickly my mind adjusted,…”…Thank you Edward and thank you Terence…and thank you Terence for your kindnesses to me…A Blessed Father’s Day to you!

[Bernard Welt]

As a semi-official representative of the Land of Dreams, I claim this poem as an integral part of our national heritage.
Back to bed now.

[Bill Nevins]

Blue prison
Brilliant poem!

[lally]

how calmly radical a poem this is

[Terence Winch]

Thanks you, Leslie!

[Dr. Earle Hitchner]

I sometimes wonder how many of us are in freefall politically and overall dispositionally. These lines jumped out (not intended as a pun) at me: "I stopped panicking. / I could think as I fell." and "How quickly my mind adjusted, / but I was dangerously bored." Those last four words convey the resonance of a tart tombstone inscription. Is ennui our greatest single fault and danger? Asked and answered, I suppose. I, too, admire the upending tilt of this exceptional poem. Kudos to Edward Salem for writing it and to Terence Winch for selecting it.

[Eileen Reich]

This is a great poem. The artwork is terrific.

[Terence Winch]

Earle: welcome back!  And thanks for the comment.

[Don Berger]

Deceptive and totally original, this poem begins with its reader wondering what the speaker's concern is, and how urgent that concern might ever become, but by the end we're faced with true dread, a shocking, captivating condition. Where did this poem come from? How did Edward Salem conceive of it? Where or what is its source? What experience, which other artists might have been an influence? How did the poet pull it all off? What happens next? This is the chain of thrilling questions I have by the time I'm done. The poem calls for, demands, another ride through. The first has been a thrill. Nice find, TP! And Edward, your audience is on its feet!

[Terence Winch]

Don: thank you---great comment.

[clarinda]

Free fall. I dream of it. This poem helps keep the dream going. It's marvelous in all meanings of the word.

[Robert McDowell]

For me, the most poignant lines are "I missed my daughter./I missed my wife. I missed our home./I missed smoking. I accepted". I see our hero, adorned in magical imagery, falling past James Dickey's flight attendant in his poem, "Falling," and waving to George Hitchcock's flight of delicious revenge in his poem, "Hometown." This poem treats us to revelation--there is no solid ground until one falls through it. There is no standstill--just Falling.