When we first heard from blocks away the fog truck's blustery roar, we dropped our toys, leapt from our meals, and scrambled out the door into an evening briefly fuzzy. We yearned to be transformed— translated past confining flesh to disembodied spirit. We swarmed in thick smoke, taking human form before we blurred again, turned vague and then invisible, in temporary heaven. Freed of bodies by the fog, we laughed, we sang, we shouted. We were our voices, nothing else. Voice was all we wanted. The white clouds tumbled down our streets pursued by spellbound children who chased the most distorting clouds, ecstatic in the poison.
"In," from Ecstatic in the Poison by Andrew Hudgins. Copyright © 2003 by Andrew Hudgins. Used by permission of Overlook Press (www.overlookpress.com).