Daisie sits on a swing in a small park
just off the two lane highway,
somewhere in Kansas.
We’re on vacation, finally, heading
to Northern California, to Mt Shasta,
and the ships in the air.
I sit on the swing beside her and we
pass a huge plastic cup of fast food iced tea
back and forth between us.
There’s a splinter in her heart tonight,
and I don’t know how to soothe her.
We’re chasing something beyond this world.
The park is as tired as a resigned sigh,
and the swings and jungle gyms and spring animals
have seen better days. Still children happily play here.
The sky is so huge it could swallow us, like God swallows
the universe in his eye, and we may stay until the stars come,
so we could look out on the night through God’s eye.
A long way to go to get where angels or demons or
otherworldly beings make sense of this restlessness
and unquiet, this desire to escape flesh and gravity.
Out of tea, she places the empty cup by her feet,
and we look up at the sky, impatient for the stars,
for the voice that quiets the terror and dislocation.