No, I would not like to ride
in your beautiful balloon. My lungs fill with wonder
from down here among the cacti, watching
red and yellow stripes float across an all-blue sky—
the thrill threshold is low with this one.
A mountaintop view makes me tingle,
but I never go near the precipice.
Once I rode a roller coaster with eyes squeezed shut,
fighting centrifugal force, waiting for it to end.
Once I crossed a high bridge with breath held,
glimpsing the splendid gorge in my peripheral vision,
but at night dreams of flying sneak in as if
my body just remembered how, an ability buried
deep as a fossil and suddenly found,
as familiar and right as yawning.
About the Author: Sarah Carleton writes poetry, edits fiction, plays the banjo, and knits obsessively in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Nimrod, Tar River Poetry, Cider Press Review, ONE ART, Valparaiso, SWWIM Every Day, and New Ohio Review. Sarah’s poems have received nominations for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Her first collection, Notes from the Girl Cave, was published in 2020 by Kelsay Books.
Image Credit: Carol M. Highsmith “Colorful balloons land at the National Balloon Classic, a hot air balloon exhibition in Indianola, Iowa, a town near the state capital of Des Moines” Public domain image courtesy of the Library of Congress.
As It Ought To Be 