You move around the house, a cord attached
to that spot on your back that no matter how hard
you try to reach, you cannot reach. At the other end,
the chamber. And you are so small; you heard the doctor
say you are 40lbs, so you’re almost sure that it’s not weight
that will trip the trigger. You figured out that some things
come from deep inside of her and some things
don’t, so you might be one of the outside things
that make her not work the right way, but maybe
you could be a thing that does. You like when she
is humming at the kitchen window, light through
the screen patterning gold on her taupe hair,
so you run in the woods for lessons from birds
on how to sing and how to fly (just in case).
The clouds look like warning signs; you think
she might be a witch, power so dark and magical
it could change the sky. Then the cord tugs
and the chamber spins. You run in circles,
forgetting all the birds told you, flapping your little arms
in desperation, as she casts another spell on the sun.
M.S. Lyle grew up on farmland in the Watchung mountains of north central Warren, New Jersey, She now lives and writes from Atlanta, GA, where she's also known to orchestrate the ancient art of wine importation over the high seas. She graduated from Lesley University with an MFA in Creative Writing and is currently polishing her first poetry manuscript, "Reclamation." Her next project includes collected essays and photographs that chase Steinbeck's ghost across America.