She knew me well-enough to know that I would lose her. She smiles beside a road somewhere. Polaroid hills are faded grey, her breast is white, her large eyes sharp and dark. She conquered gravity by only willing escape velocity at her command. Earthbound, I watched her wheeling arc curve wider every time, her shadow on the sun receding smaller with each pass, elastic inhale then exceed across a field of space behind my half-closed mammal eyes until movement all dissolved in empty blueness. Now I am condemned to watch the sky. I do my time and wait for feathered shapes against the light. From a photo edged in white her eyes still hold me. On the back I read my name in girlish loops. She knew me well-enough to know that I would need a souvenir. Memento flutters, joins the flock of paper memories in a box. A fragile click of chain turns out the light. Old muscles slide the heavy door and lift my skull to scan the sky. She knew me well-enough to know I wouldn’t fly.
Wren Donovan Published in Yellow Arrow Journal, Vol VII, No 2, Fall 2022