Gunmetal. Steel. Cold. Gray. Ash. Pewter.
This is the sky. This is the color of
the sky in winter. This sky is not real,
here, where it is always winter. It is
some artificial prop, placed there by some
deranged magician, like a mechani-
cal bird (with its own smoke-stained intentions)
calling to me, olly olly oxen
free. Come out. Come out, wherever you are!
But I am not real either. See this arm—
a linen napkin. See this leg, its knee
bent at a slight angle—folded paper.
Not even the waving of hands commands
my attention. I am a stone. A stone.
Nettie Farris lives in Floyds Knobs, Indiana. Her work is forthcoming in S(tick), Borderline, and PILGRIM: A Journal of Catholic Experience. Her debut collection of poetry is available from Accents Publishing.