The lucky one balanced out
of crazy, ripping circles
and that final dragging stab
into mud. It was always iffy,
which kite would work,
would climb invisible lifts
of wind and insist on heaven.
Then you could feel it--
that other world yanking the string
and cutting your small fist.
Terror and elation sang
between chest and mouth--
as if you, yourself, might rise,
tangle in electric wires or watch
the warm blue ball of earth
falling away behind you.
of crazy, ripping circles
and that final dragging stab
into mud. It was always iffy,
which kite would work,
would climb invisible lifts
of wind and insist on heaven.
Then you could feel it--
that other world yanking the string
and cutting your small fist.
Terror and elation sang
between chest and mouth--
as if you, yourself, might rise,
tangle in electric wires or watch
the warm blue ball of earth
falling away behind you.
I really wish I had a wee chapbook of your poems, Elena. While it's easy (and quite rewarding!) to explore the archives of Our Place, one occasionally dreams of a book!
ReplyDeleteThis poem is, as virtually all of your poems are, artistry epitomized: the product of a sure and patient hand, of a wise clear-sighted eye. And in several place, the poem practically sings. Or soars!
Thanks, Tom!
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