after Lee Krasner
A bit like parasailing, she thought, the jolt, the rise. She noticed a bench flying beside her, read the flyers tacked to it: Lost: Large Dog, Breed Unknown, Answers To Thunder, Lost: Black Watch, Both Hands Stuck at Twelve. A man reading a newspaper on an adjacent bench told her, “I feel like my shadow has been blown off.” She nodded. The pool she did morning laps in streamed past her. A woman whose backstroke she envied treaded next to her. A couple swirled past, followed by a drain. Then her mail carrier, envelopes orbiting him, stamps stuck to his face. Briefcases bumped her legs, other legs wrapped her, a crush of umbrellas smushed her face. The lights of her old neighborhood caught up with her, stripped from carpets, peeled from brick walls. For the first time, she saw the innards of yellow, tumbled into the hollows of green, roamed a gutted blue.