Learning to Pump

Learning to Pump 

Then after months of flopping around 

she felt it, hope tightening 

with her tummy as all 29 pounds and pigtails

curved like a pink comma on the pollened page

of the air where she paused,   

then flew forward like the latter half 

of the thoughts that come barreling  

well-aged from the class-five 

of her mouth in the car after school, so fast 

and airborne she nearly snagged 

her bare foot on the cloud’s 

crab-claw, which no one saw—her father 

in the shed, her mother flipping 

sweet potato fries for dinner—

which led her to climb down  

and run to where the dog elongated

in equinox light, lean over and rest 

her hands on the sun-warmed barrel 

of his chest and shout into his ear flopped

like a cup to receive what bubbled

forth, Odie, I just learned how 

to pump, to which he didn’t jump up

or howl his hooray but just lay 

without reply, which she didn’t seem to mind

but ran on, not needing the push

of anything or anyone anymore

but whatever that fresh-felt rhythm and rush

to send her pressing forever her feet

into the wet cement of sky.