I’ve finally shrunken myself. On a sliver
moon night I throw tired, withered

balloons from my sixth floor window.
They make soft, singing sounds as they sink,

deflated, to the ground. The birds are quiet
and waiting. You think that’s music I make

up in the choir loft? That’s asking to be
saved from myself. I am poison. A dog drools

on the wooden floor waiting to gnaw on the leftovers.
I lay on his tongue like bacteria, like a giddy child

in a hiding place. An old woman in a peacock dress
bends down and looks the dog in the eyes.
Notices how small the pupils are, how
distant the life seems. She sees

a girl falling from a sixth floor window
falling like air if air ever falls at all.

08/19/2004

Posted on 08/20/2004
Copyright © 2024 Lisa Marie Brodsky