The Iowa Review - - MARY QUADE -

I get up, and noth­ing gets me down.

My feet float briefly in shoes, then lose al­ti­tude, heels cra­ter­ing. If I could pin­wheel my legs into pro­pel­lers, maybe I could stay above the con­crete, dream the ab­stract swish—score. Or flicker and flip as the rope flogs air, whips me into cream. Or lev­i­tate to un­sour grapes, high on vines. Or com­pel my­self up walls, over stair rails, bare sail­ing be­tween roofs, across gap­ing cityscape, loud sound­track—a hero or vil­lain, chased. Maybe, though, it’s enough to re­bound softly from hard con­clu­sions, to see some­one else stalled, in need of my as­sump­tions, and reach the wires over, clamp small power to small power—sparks— then the wished-for roar of some­thing dead restart­ing.

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