Gabriel enters as if footless—no sound.
No sound, yet he's come to communicate.
It's like when we were children, all limbs
and on bicycles coasting downhill. I always
held tighter, gripped tighter and condensed
myself into a flat, packed torso as you
screamed beside me, words lost in the muffling
wind Stretch your hands up. Go ahead and lose
your stomach
—communication I wasn't ready for.
Like in New Zealand, in a glass elevator one
hundred floors above ant-sized sedans.
Watch your step for a great view.
God must feel this way, 100 glass stories
between himself and his own creation,
compelled to keep his eyes looking down,
yet seeing nothing in particular. Nothing
inspires him just to let himself go. Or he has
let himself go and this is the aftermath.
The trouble is I want to let go of you.
In closing my eyes, I know I will hear you
better, no matter the velocity of accelerating
bodies. I want to let go of you, but can't.

Kory M. Shrum's work has appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Ascent, Zone 3, Redactions, Phoebe, Tampa Review and elsewhere. She lives and teaches in Michigan. (kory.m.shrum@gmail.com)

Boxcar Poetry Review - ISSN 1931-1761