The Moya View

She rise

He didn’t want her to go into triteness

until he get to the other side of her

memory floating away like a balloon,

an ordinary thing, an ordinary word,

in a world full of the weight of ordinary things.

She was floating away word by word,

a balloon on a string with a heart anchor

that kept it inches from the ground

yet miles and miles and miles from the sky,

suspended close to touch, between gravity and rise—

loosening word by word but not image by image,

in fact, collecting image by image not waiting

or wanting to be named or stuck in the

heaviness of words, the groan of vocabulary,

the suffocation of definition and meaning—

He saw she was the balloon bouncing

madly off the floor, the walls, the ceiling

of his very big room, wanting to burst,

but yet she was still there, a woman

needing to empty the water from her lungs—

needing to breathe in so she can exhale out

so she can rise after he taken the weight

of his heart away and brought her outside

knowing their was nothing lonelier than

a balloon not able to rise higher

and she rejoiced in the lightness of the sun

and she burst in the pull of the moon

letting go of the last emotion the last thought

the last word last tense sense of her

until she rise she rise she rise she rise she rise she rise





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