ALISHA GRACE SCOTT
I miss the sensation of a shadow--
That dark friend connected
heel to earth,
trailing me silently,
reassuring me that illusions
are still possible and
wonder remains-- I can
appear eight feet tall and
my fingers can turn into wolf heads.
Nothing follows me softly,
nothing creates wonder as I walk.
Shadows are outcast, hidden now
under freeway tunnels,
living off stray drops of water
laced with melted tar, tire rubber.
They don't miss me at all--
they miss their castaway past
chasing marooned and orange
leaves in fall, dancing with them,
dipped down into a cool paradise.
I remember when they still fought--
tip toed to my toes, defied the
whirlwinds of fuming dust, but
they lost the war to the sun,
gained only vertigo in battle, and
spinning from ground to sky,
they unraveled the shade in retreat.
The bees dart past recklessly,
trees are stained yellow,
thirsty, dizzy, we cry:
Will the shadows ever return?
Solar flares burn this valley,
reply only in snickering freckles--
They leave me with tiny, dark
new marks. Forever summer
tattoos and brands new
constellations on my arms.