Entry #50

Flight
by Nathalie Boisard-Beudin


It was the noise, like some wings slow flapping or a letter balled up and dumped.
Over and over.
It was the light, a flicker of shadow at the border of darkness, moving past and back.
Over and over.
It was the breath, scarce on my lips, tasting of rusted tins and melted snow.

Mud and slush were clinging to my boots, trying to stop me, claim me: This flight has no point, come and rest with us, you'd be safe. In our womb. But I rushed on, through blanketed brambles and skeleton hedges, eager to flee the noise, the light, despite blood on my spit, thirst and a fading night.
Blueness rose from the ground, radiating from the winter dusting.
And I ran. Further if not faster. I ran.

It was the noise, a heart pumping sluggish, almost dead. Yet not quite.
It was the shadow, moving at the edge of light, defining it as it grew stronger.

A handful of dust,
Dark wings smothered by day break.
Prisoner of ice.
The chapel still out of reach
The light! The light! It burns me!