The yellow raincoat boy
sailed far on his chains
while I scuffed and stomped.
You swing higher, he said,
if you don’t let your feet
touch the ground.
So I stopped kicking gravel
and found myself in the air.
I burst free!
I bounced from treetops and thought bubbles,
ping-ponged off sunbeams and rooftops,
swimming and floating and gliding
in a robin’s egg sky,
past airplanes and insects
chasing their tails,
and thinking of angels,
of how someone had told me
freckles mark the spot
where angels kissed you.
But why would an angel kiss me
under my bathing suit?
Are they mindless like goldfish,
gaping and biting at baby flesh,
same as they would for flakes of feed?
As I drifted through clouds
like a balloon let go,
I wondered if I’d see any angels,
if this time they’d leave me alone,
and if they’re really made of gold.
Siobhan Manrique is a middle school English teacher in rural Arizona. She earned her BA in English and Certificate in Creative Writing at Northern Arizona University. Her poetry, fiction, and nonfiction have appeared in Full House Literary Magazine, Milkyway Magazine, Talking Writing, and others. She lives in a mining town with her husband and their dogs. Her published work is available at https://www.sbhnmanrique.com