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The Flyer

Laura Lush
From:   Fault Line. Vehicule Press (Signal Editions, 1997).


Stars, barely audible, stretch across the sky.
In the distance the Ferris Wheel turns,
the slowest of constellations.
I keep my money in a rabbit-skin pouch,
wrap the string around my hand. The very first place
is the Shell Tower. My father points and says, “Remember,”
as if it has already been hoisted
out of the debris of some war.
My sister and I run towards the great white
haunches of The Flyer,
its pronounced humps, its prehistoric stance.
While my brother walks towards the Freak House
where later Dainty Dora will lift her skirt,
offer loaf after loaf of white flesh.
It comes down to barely touching---
our heads skimming the height marker, the surly
attendant waving us on.
We pull the silver bar over our knees,
the car moves forward in slow caterpillar bumps.
Then up, up, the metal wheels tracking the chain,
the face of our father a small plate in the crowd.
Then the full forward thrust
of body and hair, our voices streaming ribbons.
The crowd below strangely still
as if they’re the ones who’ve left this earth,
How does it feel? Their eyes keep asking.
How does it feel to be up there while we are so safe
and lost down here?



Laura Lush's works copyright © to the author.


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