Practice by Shane Schick

Usually on a dining room chair, 

occasionally amid a field of grass,

a few times in a moving car

and one attempt on an airplane. 

Regardless of where it happens,

the point of departure remains

daunting precisely because 

you’re not supposed to move. 

To plant yourself, fully grown,

onto whatever counts as ground

beneath you and to commit

yourself to the quiet completely 

is as much an art as knowing

exactly when to cut the motor

so the boat can glide smoothly

those last few feet to the dock. 

The inner ridge of my ankle

will itch, then the crevice 

of each elbow, and my nose

will refuse to go unscratched.

And it’s always a surprise

when, even with eyes closed,

I suddenly recognize my lungs,

this unintentional time machine 

I’d left on auto-pilot for so long

while travelling from the past

to the future and back again,

and without a single knob

or lever I’m back at the controls,

and it somehow runs even better

when it starts to slow down,

its locomotive consistency 

propelling me up towards now,

and I offer no mantra other than

whatever gnosticism passes

through my nostrils and out.

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Shane Schick is the editor of a publication about customer experience design called 360 Magazine. His poetry has appeared in journals across the U.S., Canada, the U.K. and Africa. He lives in Toronto. More: ShaneSchick.com/Poetry. Twitter: @ShaneSchick