Brittany Cavallaro
The summer after it emptied out, the dream park stayed
lofted like a kite and the city's breath kept it there.
From each post the strings fell down
and curled and when one blew through
the window-mouth I was awake.
I tied two to the wrists my lost girl said were scissors,
I was lovely that way. My bright wrists, the party laugh
like spoon lures or spinnerbait, and though now I kept
my lips closed the sound started in my lungs. Here is
a translucent line looped in the carpet. Here is
the one who sees it and darts away. Every morning
the dream park falls and she hoists it
up again. The strings are mine. Here and there
are scales for weighing. A sodden skirt on one side,
a raised hand on the other. The dream park
or your childhood home, bristled pink as hidden flesh.
The summer after it emptied out, I planned
my appearance. The long linen table, my lost girl
strung on a necklace so I could give her
away like beads. I could pare her out of me
like a dinner. No one said that if I pulled her in
I'd have to toss her back.