ALISHA
GRACE SCOTT
Shadows
Outcast
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.
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