Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com
Willing Loss . . .
We agree at the top of the hill
and swing into place on our seats
of a blue-fendered Huffy two-wheeler.
You flatten flush on my spine,
your chin bonily leaning to see down my shoulder.
You have to hold up your feet.
I put one of mine to the down pedal,
scuff-hop twice with the other
trying the double load but ready.
I lift up my paddling foot, depress the up pedal, one
mighty shove and we’re off down the hill.
I push into wind as my legs
propel in–your trust so firmly
with me–insert our forms to cut
the scene of house, arport, street
and curb in half as we wheel past.
I throw us through, increase the speed,
nostrils shrilling with air.
We ride by shove
of loose limber legs that pivot
knees and thighs looser and light
till the bike takes us down
the hill of her own accord;
the pedals takes over control
of my soles, pushing up, lifting till
I do nothing, carried to madly pedal
against my will, then soles flung up and astray
and you sound it for us, one long coo
as handlebars figurey-eight
in my palms, hollow of force
and it has us–bodies
scintillant, time
smeared
–by mickey (Michele) morgan
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