Childhood

porch swings and porch candles—

warm parting gifts 

to the sleepful abyss

a tree house in the storm

left the four of us 

clinging to one another 

and our survival kits,

striking matches against friction strips,

the lightning blinking in the sky 

as God herself took photos of the world 

with the flash on

moving like the speed of light

while my bare feet—freshly bathed—

rest atop each pedal,

the great ball of fire—the same color

as my wisps of hair and pale yellow toothbrush—

beats down on my skin

only for the wind to cool it off...

left, right, left, right

perfect balance and perfect rotation

as if my feet already know

the secret to peace...

the aroma of clean laundry

escaping dryer vents—

the clean, fresh scent 

infusing my vicinity... 

the handlebars stabilize me

as the air around gives room to grow

the concrete, an avenue of possibility

as if the world was paved solely for me

so the soles of my feet could set me free