Beyond the Gazebo

The body she put into the poem was a dead body, see its
dark outline against the asphalt, see it in its final leap away
from what it thought and rightly so was danger, was fire, was
electricity unharnessed from its moment. Now the moment
stands. Now the moment is at rest against its background.
But the seconds don’t tick into any kind of clarity and the
moment’s fog chokes instead of clears. And the body, coming
closer, a boy’s body not yet muscled into itself, is slowly and
steadily moving away from movement and light, the boy’s
body cradles the shot and the shot settles in.

Copyright © 2018 Catherine Wing. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Tin House, Fall 2018.