free verse


An inflatable plastic globe
hangs from the rafters of my ceiling,
and when I turn the heat up high,
it spins a little,
and I imagine that the whole world
is suspended above my coffee table
and that I am the only thing that keeps it turning,
like Atlas, if he had constantly danced in circles.
I wonder about twisting and turning it
on its axis until the rubber band it’s hanging from
snaps, all of a sudden,
and lets the whole world fall,
or maybe I’ll let go before it breaks
and let the whole world spin out of control
until it flies off its nail in the rafter
to land in the dark corner.
But then I know I must be tired and dreaming
because the whole world
is not swinging from my rafter,
but I still wonder if the planet
really is hanging on by a rubber band
and being spun recklessly by a girl
who doesn’t know the breaking point.


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