02 December 2010

Prose Poem #1

after taking the subway to meet you

We have to walk up the broken escalator in Bloomingdale’s, each step taller than that of an average staircase. Our thighs ache with the effort of stretching our legs too far and our fingers cramp from gripping onto the rail. We worry about falling. We worry about slicing open the skin of our knees on the jagged metal edges of every step. We worry that it’ll start moving again while we’re still on it. If the escalator suddenly resumes its upward trek and we start tumbling downwards at the same rate of its ascent, we will be suspended in a state of perpetual motion. We will be falling and not falling at exactly the same time. I feel the warmth of your palm on my back as we approach the second floor and I think, isn’t that exactly what we’re doing now?

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