A Verbal Ecdysiast

In conversation, I find myself

looking at mirrors, windows

and eyes, searching 

for myself. I remember the first time

I went puddle diving

brisk, autumn leaves in white pages,

unchurned knees dipping 

my nine year-old eyes were as eagles soaring

depths into the ground. Infinity tastes like burnt paper

in pooled water, one inch deep, or maybe 

flakes of mascara in stranded eyes, lingering.

People taste like infinity, brazen in warpaint, 

challenging know me

children dipping toes into rippling worlds

children walking on sheets of ice

that are only ourselves

pacing. In conversation, I place my hand

She couldn't touch her feet

to the floor or her hands

to the walls or her head

to her pillow. Graced with flight,

her body repelled itself

away from objects, floating,

inches above the surfaces around her. 

(The witch had cackled that

she'd never touch the ground again, that

flight was too addicting

for a girl her age.) She cries now,

her limbs craving the comfort of a bed,

the arms of a friend, a kiss

from a lover, how can she go on

knowing

that relief is only inches beneath her,

A smile like melting butter, a laugh

like a giant's foot steps through green valleys

(loud, yet muffled by the foliage), he frolics 

from one tree's shadow to another

unsure 

how to keep his feet still. His name

means a tide flowing, intensely, and

I could certainly believe it, with rushing 

strides from one place to the next--

people have asked me why

he keeps to the shadows, when

he's so wanted in the sunlight.

I could never answer, could never 

relinquish his entrusted secrets

to anyone but the sea. 

He never locks his bedroom door

(though he keeps it shut)

forever moving tchotchkes

from one end of the room to the next

hoping to pin down

the essence of sexuality or maybe even

his Self. His room takes on identities:

male, young but

not too young but

still young enough to know

that jumping between shadows like a frog

between lily-pads makes you a moving target

difficult to shoot down. A smile from this man

(or boy) makes me want to be a martyr,

want to die for his sins so that he

could keep skipping from one shadow