The anointing oil of the sky settles across the curdled milk of clouds below. No,
it’s dishwater tea, and an erasure of atmosphere above with a cotton pillage of
cumulonimbus cramming up from below, spilling, suds in the overflowing sink,
dirty platters of cities, a submerged knife of river…no. How to describe our Icarus
moments, before the melting, in perpetual halted falls coasting on borrowed currents?
We did not ask to be here, we just took the sky, cut it in half and inserted ourselves
under its skin, floating like a patella, or like dreams where the insects interred in
dermis crawl about, you can’t stop them. The horror of flight, and the equanimity
of air to receive this raging infection, this penetration of the firmament, blessed be
the sacramental $8 plastic cups of wine (cash only offertory). If the horizon unzips
and swallows us, will oxygen masks drop? Will we help ourselves before helping
our neighbor, our children? How violent the divide between usandthem, usandthem,
the sky and the not-sky, the oil and the dishrag swamp. Waterbugs splay, floatation
requires tension, the foil needs the barreling wind we need it are born into resistance
live with it die of it light slowing down just long enough to be matter for a while
Samara Golabuk is a Pushcart nominee whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Inklette, Eyedrum Periodically, Peacock Journal, Memoryhouse and others. She has two children, works in marketing and design, and has returned to university to complete her BA in Poetry. More at http://www.samarawords.com.