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My back sways toward a grey sky
face tilted, up
fear gusts me down the steps
on an afternoon
in early winter
of my eleventh year.

Screen door bangs rhythmically behind.

I have only three wishes: I wish for wings; I wish for clear sky; I wish for colour.

The wind whips
as I reach high
clipping frayed towels and threadbare sheets
to a drooping line
icy fringe stabbing my fingers; bleached.

Extra pins drop from my mouth
caught by a tub
I bathed in as an infant
once white.

Tire leans against the tree.

I fold myself inside
comfort of invisibility; contorted
upside-down; becoming the tire
for as long as I need
studying the interior
I compare texture against my skin.

Gross.

Everything looks different from inside the tire.

Bic Flick!
Cigarette lit
ash bark splits, releasing steam
lips pursed, my practiced exhale
tries to swirl the two vapors
in spirals; upward.

Unsuccessful, I return to chains.

Panasonic radio silences
chaos and wind; nicely.

Hungry, I enter the clubhouse.
Metal door screeches shut; rust spills.
I light a purple candle with kitchen matches.

Tab, Cheez-Its, and potted meat fill me; prepared lunch.
Tracing comics from the newspaper, I begin to colour.
I decide if I could only have three of the thirty-two colours
they would be magenta, sky blue, and grass.

And black. Ok, four.

I whittle my pencil; jack-knife sharp.

Pop!
Band-aid box snaps open.
dead wren slides out
over my glass shard collection; now dulled
each piece has a story
green, purple, orange, red, and cobalt.

I know it’s wrong, but
I think this dead bird
is the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever seen.

Moving its wings, I wonder about flying.

Slam!
Officer Jerry’s car door.
He knocks on the screen door, but no one answers.

Figures.

His pitied eyes ask for help again
just routine questioning;
can I take him inside?

Shit.

Our four footsteps
ascend the stairs
ungrounded;
leaves crunch; he holds my hand.

I insert the key,
turn the knob,
as we step
into hell.

I have only three wishes: I wish for wings; I wish for clear sky; I wish for colour.

Someone told me that if you wish hard enough your wishes come true.

They were right.

For dVerse OpenLinkNight #18 www.dversepoets.com
Poetry Picnic: Childhood Dreams for http://gooseberrygoespoetic.blogspot.com/