Higher, Higher

She is born of bread and bone
of earth and breath—
the barefoot child,
who knows the twists in the river
like the lines in her palm.
They promise that she will never leave
the grass,
the sweet hills—
even as the smoke-man
crawls up the road.
His great long-legged form
looking for the secret of flight
and a moment of peace.

His body is oily and dark.

Afterwards,
He will sit in her remnants,
face wet,
wondering why he can’t sever
his ties to the mud.
Let us hope
that he learns how to clip
his multitude of legs
and raise—with a pint of his blood—
the barefoot child
out of the river.
She cannot fly
but she knows
how to climb trees.