On this day drenched in sunlight we are waiting our turn,
packed in under acoustic tile ceilings, when the lights clank off
and computers power down. An echoey announcement:
We have no estimate when power might be restored.
Groans, irritation. People get to their feet. A mother
pushing a stroller leads an exodus through smudged
glass doors. My 15 year-old whispers a mantra:
let us get electricity back, let me pass my permit test,
let it all happen now. After studying all summer
she yearns for freedom. Adventure. From a back row
there’s a commotion and a furious FUCK! and the crack
of metal against cinderblock. A man screams FUCK! again.
Another hard chair hurled. He is wild-haired, puffy-faced,
veins protruding. He pauses, circles around. Employees
steer him outside. The air stills but all is not ok.
Wouldn’t I like to lose it too? Why can’t I kick over
every goddamned chair if I want? Because I am at least
as furious—about the half-sheet of pink paper my kid
desires, about signing consent to the unknown
in triplicate forms, about hurtling semis, falling trees
and the world with new permission to harm her.
What I want right now is to fold this fresh-faced girl
back into a stroller, make a run for it and not look back.
ABOUT:
Greta Wu is currently working towards her MFA in Poetry at The Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her writing has appeared in Drunk Monkeys, The Hunger, Two Hawks Quarterly and others. She lives in northern California with her family. When she is not writing or working at her day job, she enjoys spotting birds on daily walks with her spunky young dog and looking for that elusive perfect drawing or print for her home writing office.
EDITOR'S SONG PAIRING: HARRY WAS HERE -- Started With
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