Carousel Escape
{Ben Frost/Fotografia}
01.15.12
the grey and faded memory
of my internment
a horse, stuck on the carousel
a life’s sentence
forever turning in circles
never going anywhere.
she never got on
but I would see her there
almost a look of longing
sometimes, in the hallucinogenic haze
of a never-ending left turn,
I was sure I’d see her wave me over
and when I finally got tired
of that imperfect circle,
I leapt at her, the only sharp lines
in the whole memory,
all lolling auburn waves and
backlit glances, that
could mean everything or nothing at all.
when I leapt, I overshot, I thought
but realized I was taking off
like some newly metamorphosed
Pegasus.
sooner or later, I’d have to land
to return to her.
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