Balloon
That we are instead of darkness,
that the light is steady, hard, even in far Decembers,
that the word April drills outward like rain in its own incandescence,
and the downy woodpecker’s drumming, the shrill che che che opens new spaces
around the shagged cedar,
and that ruddy cow—leaning to sup from the Arkansas River—has
a thirst equaling ours for memory,
or that laughter, laughter echoing around these canyon walls,
or the laughter leaking air from a red balloon
as fast as the weight of one body toward a teaspoon of ashes
that will never compensate for her excess,
and now evening light streaming across this wall tells me I am nothing,
and now moonlight filling in where the sunlight was,
and now a father’s hat still opening like a parachute over my head.
Originally appeared: Conjunctions 76: Fortieth Anniversary Issue, Spring, 2021.
