f l i g h t s
by
Carolyn Williams-Noren
Carolyn Williams-Noren writes, edits, and teaches in Minneapolis. Recent poems and essays have been in Hobart, Midway Journal, Under a Warm Green Linden, and Tahoma Literary Review. Her first chapbook, Small Like a Tooth, was published in 2015.
from F L I G H T S
Arrival from Potsdam // February 8 // 4:14pm
As you flew in, maybe you saw us—
the girls and me on the rink
beside Spoonbridge and Cherry.
You’d have seen pompoms
centered on knit caps, centered in
ovals of wool coat.
Our legs lopsided propellers,
the day’s only sparkle
bouncing off our blades.
Ingrid taught Iris today to flatten
bubblegum with her tongue
and blow slowly, so maybe you saw
emerging beyond the blinds of their hats
the pink semicircles that swelled
and burst and were gobbled back again.
Our daughters might think
your eyes that sharp; Iris said today
she believes in the good
kind of magic: dolls
moving at night, animals
understanding our words.
Remember the night the four of us
drove home through the city late,
and out of the stars an owl
fell-flew across the highway,
feet from us? It was paper,
I thought first.
Crumpled paper swollen by wind—
and only very near came
an instant of feathers, wings.
