Brain. Flying forward – the first draft. Mindless wandering around in circles, going nowhere but around and around and around – the endless revisions. Hitting the ground like glass falling from the sky – knowing the writing is almost there. Searching the darkness for another planet – understanding that the story is never complete, but sending it out anyway, one final Apollo mission.
Hands. Clapping, crossed at the wrists, reaching for the sky, opening another door, fingers wrapped around the thin stem of a daisy-a wineglass-a pen leaking blue ink-Atticus’ leash-a pale pink ribbon, resting on this keyboard, pulling laces tight, playing against a washboard, stirring another roux, signing a birthday card, crossing knitting needles and T’s and hearts.
Breath. Holding it. Running out of it. Catching it. Forgetting it. Waiting for a. Breathless with expectation. Deep – the ocean. Shallow – the lake. Hold your nose and jump! Sinking to the turquoise bottom of the pool. Drinking tea, finding a thin silver dime. Weightless. Bursting. Nearly out of. Remembering to come to the surface for another and then heading back under again.