Wild Thing
(First published in Bacopa Literary Review and will be included in the collection Interrogation of Morning)
I pedaled around the S,
airborneover a tender mud hump,
before landing in the brook,
with bellows of toads,
and dragonflies flitting in cursive.
Everything afire, the jewel-edged scab
on my knee, pollen parachuting
over violets, a dachshund sniffing rainbow oil
abutted by sand I dented repeatedly
with my tires.
Each rotation brought
an uphill freedom
taking me farther than permitted,
beyond the muscular world of childhood,
out of earshot of growling voices
bisecting air,
the breezeway door groaning.
A straight-backed chair awaited me,
filtered light, a mosaic on my dinner plate,
and I bowed my head
mouthed the words to Wild Thing
mossy syllables transmuted into prayer.
In carbon black,
I ladder-climbed inside my bunk,
pulled bits of yarn and sticks
around me,
while moths gaudy as dahlias
dust-battered the screen.
