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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4595 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Flight Treezaa (T. E. Ballard) A woman in an orange jumpsuit runs past Fiftieth and France. She is bare- foot and it is February. This alone is strange, yet even in spring, grass between her toes-- I would recognize the need to escape her hands held out like a child who wants to believe in flight, who needs to forget the element of gravity. I understand, though I am alone in my car, waiting for green. Waiting to leave this all behind, wondering if I should call some doctor, the police, a man who would take her away comb her wild hair, dress her in socks or should I simply pull over, state the obvious, it is cold, there is no-where left to run. The light changes and I do not move. I watch. I watch because this line, this line I hold inside my coat has begun to fade and I believe for a moment that if I unbuttoned myself, opened the door, held her hand the two of us would rise above these gray buildings and the cop now crossing the street. The two of us alone would grow orange wings and remember, even with feet the color of ice, hearts heavy as stone. We would remember our ability to fly. |
