but i could see my own breath as it hit the skin of the sky
i didn’t feel that cold but i guess that was just a trick of the mind
the clouds were just goosebumps
weren’t they, just raised cotton pimples that the atmosphere
rejected as ugly. i fell in line with their movements because i felt ugly, too
you sat next to me on the bleachers
and cheered as the team in blue and green made the first down
and you threw your head back to laugh, and laugh, and laugh with everyone else
i felt the brush of your skin as
we returned to our seats. it was different than
the sky’s, different than the earth’s, different than mine
sometimes i feel the fingers of
a different hand, i find myself in the palm of some
being too great, i can never quite see his face, but only an arm…
…stretching up, like the notes
at the end of a song, hitting just right, not flat
not sharp. you don’t ever seem to share the same visions anymore
the team scores again
you rise with the crowd like you don’t have
the discipline to do anything else, like you don’t have the nerve
i remain seated in the sky
alongside the ugly and the arms of great beings
reaching out for us, skin like the wind, the lights are blinding…
***
Annabelle Goll is writer, an artist, a musician. A person who aspires to combine these senses into a few fluid, unbroken lines of poetry.
