Circles

by Katie Grierson

 

Rode the road up and down

the coast. All that summer he turned

the wheel. Their bicycle

wheels went in red circles. Then went

backwards. Then under

the bridge and never came out. A cave

so cold I shivered. I was shivering it was so

empty. In circles, the bicycles,

the dropped gallon of milk, the tip of his finger

twirling me out the doorway. The river

went around my waist. My

waist got caught by his hands under

the riverwater. On the shore, a road went by.

I read the tarot cards and they told me I was going to die.

The cards read the bicycle and the bicycle

was in the cave and I was in the road lying

down, a whole line of traffic waiting

to kill me. The cave asked why

I dropped the milk and I had to admit I forgot all about

the bridge, and when I turned to look,

there it was, leaking in lazy puddles. I thought

I was going to die. That summer he turned the wheel.

 

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