Upward Mobility by Megan Windom

Upward Mobility by Megan Windom

A hum that vibrates surrounding air in a

proximal closeness. Towering phantom

giants and a bounce, severely random,

and voices quietly crackle (“climb and

maintain one two hundred.”) With no great heave

required to seduce the mass to leave

The blue ribbons that stretch in sinewy

shapes through parched land grasping at cobalt threads.

Green patches grow smaller, posing as beds

to the specks of brown and white that nestle

the forms and folds that hold them. Higher still

to the false grey ceiling, the dangerous chill

of anticipation sinks in.  Gardens

shrink and no longer create clear details

on the tapestry below.  Our own pale

outline long ago naught but history

for any clever eye.  Disappearing

with every inch that closes, nearing

the limitations of alert vision.

A heavy breathe upon the common face

stirs several rocky lurches in the space

without land.  Approaching the looming

tower, ghost in unknowable static,

it excites palpitations, erratic

in my throat and chest.  Not fear or terror.

Not really.  But the known and unknown lunge

recklessly just before the upward plunge.

At first only a wisp, then deep emersion,

the brilliant light of higher excursion

fills white blinded eyes with soothing saline.

Only minutes, maybe seconds can pass

before a steep exit, where through the glass

a false sea sits with white washed waves stained gold

___________________________________________

Over Greenland by Peter Campion

A current like a noise machine through sleep.

Blue lichen fields. Mossed boulders. Waking up

to ice cubes cracking in a plastic cup

and voices (“awesome for the Hong Kong branch

. . . well, most of all we miss our daughter . . . ”) I still

see it: the climb up slate as runnels spill

from some bare misted summit like a source.

Whatever sense this dream might make

to others. And whatever when they wake

they also have been dreaming. Rivers of faces

down hallways, merging, as desires mesh

and fissure. Cash for clothes or arms or flesh.

And if there is no towering sublime

where all comes clear to all, no final climb

through cloud, like some old Bible illustration:

how could that ever stop the current flowing

out of the glass at jfk: skin glowing

plumb and peach as we walk inside the sun.