In a parallel life, I take them back with boundless ingenuity. I use butterfly nets to
capture those drifting balloon-like towards the sun, garage sale vases to scoop up the ones
heading south in the chlorinated pool, a rake to corral the fugitives hiding behind blades of
unmown grass. I fling them all into a lidded box, which I promptly lock with my fingerprint. I
remove the top third of the relevant digit and feed it to the impatient bonfire. The flesh crisps and
blackens in tangerine flames born for this moment. Having Pandora-proofed my receptacle, I
congratulate myself on averting catastrophe. In this life, I have no recourse. The spoken words
imprint with finality, each syllable the weight of a snow-glazed mountain. You walk away. Only
an echo returns.
capture those drifting balloon-like towards the sun, garage sale vases to scoop up the ones
heading south in the chlorinated pool, a rake to corral the fugitives hiding behind blades of
unmown grass. I fling them all into a lidded box, which I promptly lock with my fingerprint. I
remove the top third of the relevant digit and feed it to the impatient bonfire. The flesh crisps and
blackens in tangerine flames born for this moment. Having Pandora-proofed my receptacle, I
congratulate myself on averting catastrophe. In this life, I have no recourse. The spoken words
imprint with finality, each syllable the weight of a snow-glazed mountain. You walk away. Only
an echo returns.
Colette Parris is a Caribbean-American attorney whose poetry and prose can be found in Michigan Quarterly Review, The Offing, Scoundrel Time, MoonPark Review, Cleaver, Lunch Ticket, and elsewhere. Three of her stories have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She lives in New York. Read more at coletteparris.com.
Lost Balloon 