On the Seawalla community gallery of new writing, art and commentary hosted by Ron Slate

The In-Between

 

 

I live in the in-between,

between coming and going,

before the tide turns

and the water boils,

at the point where the wall starts to curve.

 

I love half-sprung fiddleheads,

cracked robin’s eggs,

and bridges,

birds floating,

not flying, above me.

 

I sleep in the top car

of a broken Ferris wheel —

 

I race away from the sun

and feel free in the fog,

at the edge of the forest

by the side of the road —

 

I dive into disappearing places,

the space just before bows strike violins,

swim in final notes fading,

flee as silence somersaults into applause.

 

 

*     *     *     *     *

 

 

Manus Miraculum

 

 

There’s that hand again,

bursting through the earth.

It’s in my backyard today,

but I’ve seen it in woods and parks,

even rising from a planter at the mall.

Fuchsia fingernails emerge first,

then I see the ruby ring,

finally the wrist,

adorned with gold bracelets.

The fingers stretch as tall and wide as they can

and wiggle triumphantly,

luxuriating in the air —

sometimes I wish my mother would stay dead.

Her hand vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

The grass looks undisturbed.

I claw into the lawn,

rip it up with my nails,

and cry, No, Mama. Come back!