When I think of glowing ribbons, the felts of yesteryear, when you and I knew one another, the Capital Theater leaps, the swings, the spins, the taps of hard work and air, but where I want this to go is not to the souls of sore feet, but the heights of our heads in twirl.
In Bengaluru there lives a Sparrow Man whose hands have become a sanctuary for the thin-limbed creatures, old world, or song.
Sparrow, the ones who in unison fly from the tall chimney’s freed of building to heights of clouds, the wisps of cirrus, the gaiety of curly haired little girls shrieking and pointing, or no matter at all if these are instead, the gray swifts and the naming’s in error, still he loves them all, and the dancing of their soft wings and frolicking feet.
Swishery-swoosh, swishery-swoosh, I am the eye that is your eye, her eye, there in the holy ghosts of little hearts that flutter, birds and butterflies bursting, the thin lines of icicles melting, onto red tongues, the cool and soothing slipping down our throats wakes the swishery-swooshing wild sparrows who fly us to light our soul’s own song!
How he reached around to touch my bare back in the light blue tulle, the crowns we donned at the party, the pictures of arm in arm, the holy days of Sadie Hawkins and dance dates. The penciling in of LOVE, of white racing horses, of peaches just picked, of the poem I’d written in fourth grade that made the reflections-entry number-one, so that I might create a black construction papered, three-fold-barrier to hold the pressed in old English letters--on velum, for the Springville Art Museum. Me, also in a little black dress, with yellow buttercups & blue swifts, a keepsake calico print, my hair pulled back in combs--my lips, little red ribbons learning to sing, a lifting-lilting revolution of sounds.
Photo Credit: Bianca Ackermann/unsplash
