I See Youhttps://i0.wp.com/barrenmagazine.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/06/SIC_Jacelyn-16.jpg?fit=1024%2C768&ssl=11024768Lauren EndicottLauren Endicotthttps://secure.gravatar.com/avatar/0ac88346369d7f6ce34813303fb7c48b?s=96&d=mm&r=g
A single filament stretches the width
of my front path, arching and flexing.
I see no spider, web, or terminus, still
a bridge dances in the air. I am sure
later my daughter will run this way and
break it, unknowing. I think of northern
baroque artists hunched in sun-flooded
studios for hours, perfecting the pearly
sheen of a soap bubble at the end of
a child’s straw. Hours, maybe days to
capture one bounce of light gone in a
breath. Some of these men would tuck
a toppled skull into the frame: a yard
strewn with small helmets, side-sleeping
bicycles, a grounded kite. The breeze
alone may snap the strand, I fret.
It catches the sun just so. I see you,
I want to say, as if this might ensure a
survival. I suppose many people don’t
see the end in everything. They walk
into museums with bullseyes on their
temples and, with any luck, are felled
to their knees at the feet of children.