Dream Park

Brittany Cavallaro

                        The summer after it emptied out, the dream park stayed
                                    lofted like a kite and the city's breath kept it there.
            From each post the strings fell down

and curled and when one blew through
                        the window-mouth I was awake.
I tied two to the wrists my lost girl said were scissors,

            I was lovely that way. My bright wrists, the party laugh

                        like spoon lures or spinnerbait, and though now I kept
                                    my lips closed the sound started in my lungs. Here is
            a translucent line looped in the carpet. Here is

the one who sees it and darts away. Every morning
                        the dream park falls and she hoists it
up again. The strings are mine. Here and there

            are scales for weighing. A sodden skirt on one side,

                        a raised hand on the other. The dream park
                                    or your childhood home, bristled pink as hidden flesh.
            The summer after it emptied out, I planned

my appearance. The long linen table, my lost girl
                        strung on a necklace so I could give her
away like beads. I could pare her out of me

            like a dinner. No one said that if I pulled her in
                        I'd have to toss her back.