By Tess Bradley
A round, in circles.
A child grabs an armpile of round lids, round cups, the yogurt container, the frisbee, and traces wildly. She is manifesting near perfection. The grace, the power of this shape feels more of a miracle than an art activity on a rainy morning.
Out the large tile of glass panes is the wet sand, the railroad ties soaking with black brown sky juice, the weeds and steel pipe climbing structures screaming I’m so shiny, I’m so free.
The electricity inside of the child is vibrating above the music that is playing out of the plastic tape recorder at her side.
The lightning in her being lifts her up out of the lightweight curved seat. The chair falls on its side, two legs sticking sideways. The metal is dry, rubbed, dull.
The child squeaks and half turns her head to see, again the mastery of her mistake. I did that!
The chair doesn’t work now. We move on— to the door, how she knows the pivot of the button AND the twist with two fists, or one hand with a straight elbow.
She flies out of her heart and circles back. Her eyes on the pirate ship – the ship ladder rope wet, the sunlight, yellow. Mad delight.
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