To submit to a beckoning finger.

To be born into the world from
a place, from wealth, from the wrong
side of the tracks. To unravel,
as from bulging seams.
To finally buckle at the knees
and find the floor a suitable place to fall.
To move toward, to approach,
to watch a covered pot
on a heated stove. To abuse
a breathy whisper on the phone
with your lover when your parents
have left for the night.

To gather together. To imagine
your mother stealing Beatles records
from her oldest sister, dancing,
her hair stuck in the back
of a flowered skirt, a wrinkled shirt
loose about her young chest.

To slow your breathing
and regain composure after a chemical
flight. To raise your eyebrows
at a friendly bartender and
coolly lean in to ask her name.

To arrive,
especially at the end
of something, and hopefully
not prematurely.

To occur naturally. To be brought
about involuntarily, and sometimes
without warning as the ominous occurance
of a single gust of wind. To be overwhelmingly
calmed in the face of an unalterable
situation. To breath a sigh of resignation.
To find yourself at an age appropriate
to have grown into the awkward
body of adulthood. To worry
about a first impression.

To be pulled away from
a distracting display of toys
by an exasperated mother of five.

To be derived.

02/13/2004

Author's Note: After Connor O'Callaghan's "Fall"

Posted on 02/13/2004
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason