by Mira Martin-Parker
It doesn’t always happen in an instant,
a day, or a week. Sometimes you must fly
so far, they can never come after you.
And so you stay.
Sometimes there’s a trick. Sometimes a light.
Sometimes. But this happens only occasionally.
They come. They do not come. It stands.
There is no use crying to the skies.
There is no use in wailing. The trick
is to learn to learn to fly. Then go.
This is how it has always been.
Clusters, clustering the way selves cluster.
In light. Moving away. Oh, they are tiring,
with their moving clusters. The cold and the damp
makes one cry out. The stuffing in, the huddling.
And all that damn work. It’s tough.
A bit of the deepness about it, just a bit.
And in some places, a bit more. It takes one
to the edge. To look and see.
This seeing gets a little old, and older still,
the special sort of light between day and night.
The gap. It opens. And you step in. Pink and blue,
and pale. Shadows of flowers in the damp.
Quiet footsteps. This path, this walk, this light.
(Best stay inside, it’s far safer.) The light between
is anything but certain. Footsteps along pavement,
eyes peering in.
It didn’t work as intended. Something was missed.
Someone was missed. Wrong. Incorrect. An outside
was created. Then a quick and dangerous slip. A breath.
Dimly wide and open.
Bare and lush. Settled and warm. A front door shut tight.
Un-chosen, yet transcendent.