The Writer’s Wheel Ivy Becker

THE WRITER'S WHEEL

Ivy Becker

My stomach sinks to my feet As I ascend toward the heavens. The air is thinner up here; It tastes like sky.

Gravity grips my ankles And yanks me down with its invisible fist. I unleash the breath held captive in my chest, And with it comes words; they take their places on my page in perfect order.

What next? What left is there to say, to do, to be? The wheel rotates. I travel upwards and beam at my words as they dance and hold hands. Then back down again, to where it is blank, where there is nothing. I exhale an empty, wordless breath.

I replay the memory over and over. I have spent more time reliving the moment than I have living it. What was once vivid and in high resolution Is now grainy and distorted.

I can no longer feel the air or taste the sky. I read what I have written, And discover that it hardly resembles The real thing.