flight

oh child move back and up over that green grassy hill, fall, roll, like in card board boxes and sack races on the last day of school. once i won a box of chocolates, because they liked my colors and scream in the dark, a fall, a very harsh and real awakening, a very strange and surreal vision of yourself on the floor, floating, sinking, sitting, staying

still

but in the water you move quickly, swimming for the shore, or the open waters, looking for sharks until you find this strange large pirate ship on its way somewhere, on its way to an island where they paint gold on children's faces and teach them how to fly from branch to branch, over mountain tops, on the tallest trees you'll ever see. one lands next to you, one stops and peers from above, one gives you a gift of a small orange fruit and insists you eat. you slowly take a bite and as your teeth sink in the world is laid flat, the sun turns black, the sky is a sparkling fabric and you are inside the tiniest expanse of dream like a coffin on the final day, or the first day, early and too soon.

sit with me

help me look for the secret missing piece that flutters just beyond our vision, just beyond where we can see. does it grow? does it form wings and toes? we follow it backwards up through a small square door in the sky, up through heaven's air duct and then we fall through some dusty ceiling panel into a meeting of sleeping men, and land on their table naked and entwined.

we stretch out

we recline

we fall asleep so gently

determination

i have to run away and try

i have to just wait a few more hours, a few more days, a few more places under my belt, tucked in. pants too loose, i'm shrinking day by day. when i am the height of the floor i'll jump off and crawl underneath wide pink ribbons wrapped around giant packages holding secrets for tomorrow. but i'll sneak down. i'll sneak through. you'll meet me there, you promised.

you'll meet me there, we'll play.

what did you find?

what new window panes they installed to stop the endless shuffle of dead things in and out. what new tables they built and arranged nicely to hold magazines and board games, use coasters please, vacuum underneath, between, behind. in the corner they found a spider the size of my hand and it scurried into a corner, through a crack, down into the in-between of the wall and the floor. we had to take apart the whole house, piece by piece. we stacked the wood in neat piles by size, and sorted the screws. the yard was full and pretty soon another house was built and then three more, the neighborhood was filling up, crowding, wall to wall, eave to eave. and who was she who moved in after, looking for a small room with no light, a small space to come and hide, a room in a house full of strangers?

she smelled like coriander all the time, and lemon, and she walked sort of sideways down the halls of the building, all connected by bridges and corridors to the other houses. she wandered the halls, running the pointer and middle finger of her left hand along the walls, feeling every inch of paint and door frame and trim and door. it was rough. dry and rough. mostly beige, mostly drywall, painted quickly and haphazardly, splatters left on the floor. the floor, ugly grey tiles. the ceiling, they didn't bother, it still stained from when that washing machine flooded on the third floor.

in that room the wallpaper peeled revealing thin wood panels which we took off to see what came next and discovered small compartments, little squares of shelves, little dark nooks home to dried flowers, green marbles, toothpicks, old tubes of paint, half used. all set gently in the center of their box looking out at us as we stood agape and wondering about the author of the book the library lost and set out fliers on the street for a reward, like if you lost your cat.

have you lost your cat?

have you gone looking?

what did you find?