Wild Stream Orchid
by Aiyana Masla
I open the attic roof’s trapdoor on almost day
& the light is mirage light, is a choir. Lime light,
Hydrangea light, bathed in salt, thick fog.
After-storm crouched over the city
after it stood, after it spoke. The air tuned to it.
Swollen. Here. My heart
is broken by this impossible world.
Yesterday, as I biked home, alone, downhill,
the sky silk smooth over my body, I saw a kid
on a pogo stick. An actual pogo stick
bouncing up & up. Spring-ing, leap-
ing, her curls flapp-ing, goofy wings, rise-ing
into the slow glow of dusk. This big world
where yesterday in the park I saw a man,
an older, gray haired man, serious mustache
& all, running at full speed beside his yellow dog
both of them hurtling through the air, up & up
both of them laughing, & as if choreographed,
jumping, soaring into a shared high arc. Yesterday,
a round child, riding in a granny cart pushed
by an adult like a boat pushed by wind, stood
fully upright with their hair flying up, my heart
flew up, obliterated. They sang loudly, Defying Gravity,
small arms spread tremendous, grand. I was sung to.
Serenaded. Out & up into the dark waters surrounding us
the sweet & brokenness of the street.
& the light is mirage light, is a choir. Lime light,
Hydrangea light, bathed in salt, thick fog.
After-storm crouched over the city
after it stood, after it spoke. The air tuned to it.
Swollen. Here. My heart
is broken by this impossible world.
Yesterday, as I biked home, alone, downhill,
the sky silk smooth over my body, I saw a kid
on a pogo stick. An actual pogo stick
bouncing up & up. Spring-ing, leap-
ing, her curls flapp-ing, goofy wings, rise-ing
into the slow glow of dusk. This big world
where yesterday in the park I saw a man,
an older, gray haired man, serious mustache
& all, running at full speed beside his yellow dog
both of them hurtling through the air, up & up
both of them laughing, & as if choreographed,
jumping, soaring into a shared high arc. Yesterday,
a round child, riding in a granny cart pushed
by an adult like a boat pushed by wind, stood
fully upright with their hair flying up, my heart
flew up, obliterated. They sang loudly, Defying Gravity,
small arms spread tremendous, grand. I was sung to.
Serenaded. Out & up into the dark waters surrounding us
the sweet & brokenness of the street.
Aiyana Masla is author of Stone Fruit (Bottlecap Press) and the Underdream (forthcoming with Cornerstone Press). Her poems and art have been featured in the West Trestle Review, For The Wild, Rogue Agent Journal, Willows Wept Review, and elsewhere. Her newest manuscript in progress was shortlisted for YesYes Books' open reading period, and she hopes to release this third collection of poems soon. Aiyana is a queer, interdisciplinary artist and educator and a gardener. For more of her work, see: www.AiyanaMasla.com