Jump by: Nicole Busch

Jump

By: Nicole Busch

My riding teacher said: Look, think, and breathe.

Look, I told myself.  And took a deep breathe.

Clouds are white but they darken with some rain.

I wasn’t going to let that stop me,

or hold me back from succeeding, winning.

I was determined, like a hawk looking,

determined to catch their prey, or a bird

ready to succeed in flying so high.

Look, my teacher would surely tell me, they

represent willpower, purpose and drive.

She said: memorize the course jump by jump.

Each turn represents a change in your life.

Change is form.  I keep hearing change helps to

transform and is a mark of character.

Like pilgrimage once morphed to mirage in

a noisy room, someone so earnest at

my ear.  Think, my teacher proudly told me.

But not too much, for overthinking would

be a burden. Like having a big test

the day after getting slight to no sleep.

She said: make sure to go step by step, and

jump by jump; not the course as a complete.

It is important to think before you

act, even if its for a short while.

The little dream in there, inside the think

stage I am in.  Like an idea waiting to

burst out of the box, so curious of

the world outside, excited and willing.

So I gathered the reins in my hand, ready

to show my talents.  And I took a breath.

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Pencil

BY MARIANNE BORUCH

My drawing teacher said: Look, think, make a mark.

Look, I told myself.

And waited to be marked.

Clouds are white but they darken

with rain. Even a child blurs them back

to little woolies on a hillside, little

bundles without legs. Look, my teacher

would surely tell me, they’re nothing

like that. Like that: the lie. Like that: the poem.

She said: Respond to the heaviest part

of the figure first. Density is

form. That I keep hearing destiny

is not a mark of character. Like pilgrimage

once morphed to mirage in a noisy room, someone

so earnest at my ear. Then marriage slid.

Mir-aage, Mir-aage, I heard the famous poet let loose

awry into her microphone, triumphant.

The figure to be drawn —

not even half my age. She’s completely

emptied her face for this job of standing still an hour.

Look. Okay. But the little

dream in there, inside the think

that comes next. A pencil in my hand, its secret life

is charcoal, the wood already burnt,

a sacrifice.