she imagined what kind of bird
she would be
that day, as the swing (blue, plastic)
bucked and dipped and flew straining
the heavy hanging branches
of the crab apple tree
what wings and feathers,
what talons, what beak,
what heart
as her legs pumped with reckless abandon
(with all the power of her three years)
as her body left the seat, was airborne, the shiny burning rope
slack in tiny palms
she was (obviously) wild and
brave and free, her feet
pierced the blue of windswept sky
and she would only have them
go higher
because she still did not know that beneath her
on the spinning earth, the dirt
that smelled like home
contained (inevitably) a thousand thousand deaths
carcasses and shells and shed skin
or that the tree was rooted deep with sap
like blood
flowing
like her own
just for a time
she only knew that all of this hinged together
where tree met earth
where feet met sky
where the deep
bright wildness of her skin
and bone and eyes
(and wings and feathers)
met eternity
"Isolate this moment," you said,
"Let its happiness anchor you, find
the great good god
there, in the scene, smiling
beatifically
let this moment
glow for you."
But I am not made for isolating things
happiness is (forever) one neuron-fire away
from the deepest darkness
(of talon and beak) and mine
fire with alarming rapidity
so that dirt and sky and joy and
all the lovely bruised and fallen crab apples
are not (ever) alone.
instead
(always) in the corner where the happy scene fades to its edge
there is a figure tensed and turned
inward, folded over on itself (always),
face hidden behind hands
(behind wings)
pressed into the corner where metal fence meets
metal fence
smaller and smaller because the flying stopped
and time started
and the feet never reached anything
and now she knows
what the dirt is made of
if you are in the scene,
great good god (where are you?)
if you are anywhere
it is by the pear tree
waiting
waiting for that terrified hiding one
the one with marks of chain link in her back
to look up (no, not now)
and see (I won't)
the soaring child (she should have known she could fall)
who would be a bird (of wing and talon and beak and feather
and heart)
above all that is breaking and already broken
above where one day her bright and shining skin and bone will rest
as dirt, will flow
as sap and blood,
where all that matters, and all that is will hinge
together in the place
where earth meets tree meets sky
held together
with pumping legs, with slackening rope,
(with all the power of her 36 years), with wild
reckless
soaring
