Jessica Purdy 

I was

—after Skipping Along by Jennifer Moses

fast enough to etch motion—
face, a flower, feet on fire.

I used to play this way.
Skinny river bends

beneath my skipping steps.
I was red I was pink I was blue.

I wanted what I didn’t have yet.
Wind I held in my hair.

Ocean I swallowed.
Heart pumped like a small fist.

Raspberries burst on my tongue.
I was the bar of soap and chimney smoke,

mirror with the silver rubbed,
the tear-stained sheet,

wheat paste and sanded floors,
musty staircase underfoot,

backs of leaves before the storm.
Always who I would become.

Kingston Gallery

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