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Coming Down
She-being me-sat
Suspended by chains
Rubber for a seat, a cushion,
A base for lift-off. Listen,
She was wearing me;
I am not her.
The time was not there. It had floated
From my grasp hours before-
Now a distant strung-up helium balloon.
And she-on that seat-hovering
Between the sun-broken dome sky
And the chewed-up, spit-out
Mulch/gravel ground.
She stretched out her legs
on
Every up-swing. One foot covering
A single cloud that always tasted grey
Each time she came down.
(Her eyes busy squinting
Smiles into the sun.)
Swimming through air,
Back and forth
Closing her eyes; it rained satin
Until her limbs ached.
She sat-stopped
in still suspension
As the afternoon sun-
A golden spider-crept
(A creeping quiet.)
Her hands on her lap,
Her eyes on her hands.
The string appeared, dangling,
Tickling her fingers, tying
Itself around her wrist-tick-tock.
I-thinking of her-walked,
A deflating balloon
Bobbing with my step.
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