LISA J. CIHLAR

Girl at Nine and Again at Thirteen

Here are these cherished birds. Rock doves cooing from the edge of the roofless concrete silo. This place where she grows up, where the world is broad and emerald when she thrusts her head above the edge of the silo. If she is fearless enough to climb cold steel, rung after rung, straight up into the sphere that is the sky. Pigeons wheel, waiting for her collapse. Waiting for tenacious burdock to discourage. For the crumbled edge to tell her this is not safe. An elbow ratcheted over rusted rung leaves copper-colored stain in the crook. The lovey-dovey birds pace the barn roof-ridge, head tilt, head tilt. The brazen birds flair closer, the brazen girl feels the wind splinter.