my mother dreams of taking off
in a hot air balloon, not exactly flying
but rising, a slow-motion escape
fueled by the hiss of flame
parachute silk and her breath-
held longing to be lifted
from ground
she collects postcards and prints
of antique airships and dirigibles
turn-of-the-century flying machines
captained by men in waistcoats
and bowler hats – she has a flight
plan of her own, a Magritte fantasy
to disappear
from suburbia to surreal
in a swirl of sun and fringed scarf
glinting spyglass held to her eye
she will launch in a basket
packed up like a picnic
rainbow canopy overhead
she will ascend with a whoosh
and a wave from bumpy field
tedium to aerial parade – high-stepping
above trees and cow leas into clouds
as the earth below grows as small
as she knows it to be
grasslands and cul-de-sac
homes, cars ferrying families
to church, bridge games
and laundry days, blackberry
bushes to pluck, gardens to weed –
and we three
watching her float in the gondola
of a full-moon balloon, circled by birds
bon voyage cries and those on the ground
clapping leaping reaching –
‘til all that remains is shadow
big and round as a basilica crown
Lucinda Trew
Lucinda Trew lives and writes in North Carolina with her jazz musician husband, two dogs, one cat, and far too many (or never enough?) books to count. Her work has been featured in Bloodroot Literary Magazine, Cathexis Northwest, Mockingheart Review, storySouth, Eastern Iowa Review, and other journals and anthologies. She is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, Best of the Net nominee, and Boulevard’s 2023 Emerging Poet Award recipient.
