on the persistent desire to be a red balloon  

i blew my soul
into a red balloon--
it hardly fit--
like a jostling
corridor or
city avenue--
shoulder nudge
shoulder--
i stepped
on my own feet & 
breath by breath
i forced myself
inside-- all my air--
pillow thoughts &
alphabets
exhaled between
my lips & into
the illusion of
rubber-- 
the cavernous quiet
of the balloon--
i had wanted to
feel dark &
quiet-- like walking
back into an 
egg shell-- cracked
beneath bare feet--
the kitchen is
full of wooden
spoon & whisks  
& we keep
the leftover 
birthday
balloon in 
the top drawer 
next to the matches--
upon the windows
so i can set out--
if you cannot
trust
the wind then
what are you doing
here? where
do you put your
soul when you
are tired &
wanting refuge?
mine doesn't
fit in coat pockets
anymore-- eager 
for altitude--
does you soul climb
ladders if
left unattended?
mine does--
like a moth desperate
to fly deeper
into a sun-- 
to dip into light
i too have a body 
that craves 
height-- 
here i go-- 
ribbon tied neck--
tail whipping--
children pointing
at the balloon
gone astray--
bright against 
the greyish blue
afternoon &
soon the sunset will
wash all of
our feet
with her hair--
teach us to love
bruising &
take inventory
of our orange scars--
if you see
me don't say 
any prayers-- i'm
sneaking up
into heaven
with my warm-breathing
soul-- 
these are the acrobatics 
of fate--
if you believe 
in that sort of
thing-- i don't
i  just know that 
whatever heaven
is that it must
be somewhere
beyond the clouds
& that it is probably
best reached by
absurd acts
of trust such
as letting go
of yourself
in the form of 
an old birthday 
balloon left over
from when you turned
7 & everyone wore
party hats 
& you licked 
frosting roses from
the corners of
sheet cake--
who is to say
that the back yard
is no a sheet cake 
& you just haven't
checked? 
my hands are sticky
from all this
sugar-- all
these frosting
spoons & whisks 
in the kitchen--
steal yourself
a fist of
utensils--
i am smart
enough to know
heaven will
not be all it's
cracked up to be--
that's why i'm
coming prepared
with cooking
implements & a sense 
of disappointment--
i have found 
for me at least
it is better
to embrace 
worse-case-scenarios--
kiss your unhappy
endings & dog ear
pages when you're not
ready to read
anymore-- 
for now i'll be
the red balloon--
the one children
point at-- reaching
casually towards
even though
i am already 
so so 
catastrophically 
unbound--
their parents
will open the 
top kitchen drawers--
pass fingers
over their own
unused balloons
& consider 
if they could
exhale themselves
into the same
small quiet
space--
come up here--
what would it
take for you to
emanate yourself?
bruised &
beautiful