—after Skipping Along by Jennifer Moses
fast enough to etch motion—
face, a flower, feet on fire.
I used to play this way.
Skinny river bends
beneath my skipping steps.
I was red I was pink I was blue.
I wanted what I didn’t have yet.
Wind I held in my hair.
Ocean I swallowed.
Heart pumped like a small fist.
Raspberries burst on my tongue.
I was the bar of soap and chimney smoke,
mirror with the silver rubbed,
the tear-stained sheet,
wheat paste and sanded floors,
musty staircase underfoot,
backs of leaves before the storm.
Always who I would become.
Kingston Gallery
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