The Red Balloon

Dawn Robinson

a boy grew in
a Grey city
until his knees were
a pale measure above his socks

In the froth of the wake of the love
of a hefty worried woman he slipped in the building
out of the church
whose doors were too tall
and weighty for a ship to buttress open

Then the hope and internal reflection
of hope appeared as a red balloon

gradually it became clear
it was unnecessary to fasten it in a stationary position
although it festered as a bruise on
the sensibilities of bullies in the neighborhood

who could not bear up, under the sheen of
its perfection

whose tigers understood the killing of love
Not love’s vertical pull and regeneration
how it plumed impossibly
escaping with its many-colored brothers above gravity’s grasp on Paris

The Red Balloon