by Caroline Parke

wiggling inch born
high up
a dizzy haze
of pirouetting pollen
strands gave you form
to match
in your listless, swirling
descent; a ribbon dancer,
you silked you
down slow
from that breeze-haunted
nursery, carried through
clouds of tree sex,
fluorescent with lust,
one sticky band linking
the branch of your birth
to this duller atmosphere

this was when
my lashes snagged your skein
I blinked,

and ripped you from
the air
you fell under my running
feet, and though free
of your feet on the tickle
of my neck,
and though you had no chance to fold
and unfold
yourself across my vision,
and though I could see the way
because you fell
still:
I am blinded
by your little death,
by the failure
of your too-bold
trapeze—if you,
light, lovely, and new—if you
couldn’t stick
the landing,
couldn’t right the falling
turn:
what befalling
menaces me?

[divider]Guest Contributor[/divider]

caroline_parke_profile_squareIn addition to writing poetry, Caroline Parke loves big dogs, whiskey/porches, and traveling. She graduated from Davidson College in 2011 and is currently a student at Stanford Law School. She lives in Palo Alto with Bonnie, her red standard poodle.