helium
when it was summer still, i
climbed up a plum tree and made up a song that
went on singing itself. i put my eyes
on sturdy branches so that they’d stay open
long after i climbed down. That was the summer i
wobbled onto roofs that weren’t mine and dangled from telephone wires
as if a blouse hung on a washing line. i wanted god
to catch me and he did. god said get in the car
and he drove me down to california at midnight so i could see
the moon dip
like a tea bag into the pacific.
you might have seen us
or you might see us again, hair and hands,
driving like maniacs, and we’re
screaming, flying,
laughing and won’t stop.
Rowan Tate is a creative and curator of beauty. She reads nonfiction nature books, the backs of shampoo bottles, and sometimes minds.