Walking on a wire

under a fire lined sky

above a chilling ground

she floats on her delicately drawn line


up here she is distant

from the cacophony

which surrounds her and blows cold air

that is a coded attempt to knock her

frail body off

to leave her

crumpled on the pavement

deserted--

like a napkin left over from a cookout--

while the biting cold nips at her insecurities

her eyes are drawn back to

that slice of gray cutting

through that citrus sky


and every step she took on that line

was for a hope of one whole existence

not the halves they stick to her slick

forehead

which easily slide off with just a whisper of wind for they

were never supposed to be there in the

first place her fingers start to get cold the wind continuing to beat at her back gravity pulling her down it’s lonely up here


her mind travels


as she tries to look for that gray stone

which will balance a black and white scale

because her goldish skin and curly hair

is both a blessing and a curse in a

society

which refuses to see the whole picture


the picture with the sky and the

ground and the tightrope

and the birds and the clouds and the

cement and the colors

and her


the sun is now gone...

night has come


so it is time to decide what she knew

all along:

that she is made by and for the ground

and the sky

so she returns to her body of contradictions

which still dances on that line

so she remembers: left over right


with grace with pride with power