What’s so dangerous about a free radical? Caring not to ask the mob: masters of puppetry and coquetry, who individually dare not splash in the puddle and ruin their batteries and silk, I let the question drift away…but like sea foam, it still hugs the cytoplasmic shore. Like the loud-mouth seven rows up spilling his domestic draught as he shouts at you that you’re in deep water, you’ve got two strikes against you, ‘one more shot, and you’d better make it count, Buddy!’ You catch his twinkling wink, suddenly affirmed to consummate the marriage to your slippery dreams right then and there as cheap beer soaks the shoes of at least one of your onlookers. But he doesn’t mind wet toes because he’s rooting for you. The puddle with the crack of the bat becomes the sky, and earth may have dammed the water, but we not only know how to break it but how to build one anew; we can splash in the puddles and feel on our feet the asphalt, warm from the cool rain and sunrays. Then dive in headfirst, swimming in the blue for as long as we will. We do not fill in space, we become it.
©2011, Amaya Engleking