Carried Along on Great Wheels
by Name
Dear ghosts long-vanished into ash and gray city wind
I think of you
When someone bicycles by with a little seat on the back, and in that
seat, listing perilously
earthward, a two-year-old girl half-asleep
Sagging down towards the pavement, wearing a tiny helmet and
carried along on great
wheels
Sack of potatoes is what my father used to call me, joking, when he
hoisted me up on his
shoulders
And I loved it, loved seeing the world from that great height
Now bare black trees stretch over the lake glistening like a giant eye
at the center of our city
And from leafless branches an explosion of gulls, winging in unison
Their furious texts scribbled on sky and immediately erased
The lives we dreamed we’d live, and the lives we actually have
Dogs on twin leashes, pulling us eagerly toward everything that flies
Alison Luterman has written two books of poetry The Largest Possible Life (Cleveland State University Press) and See How We Almost Fly (Pearl Editions). In addition to poetry, she writes plays and personal essays. She has taught at The Writing Salon in Berkeley, at Esalen Institute and Rowe Camp and Conference center; at Omega institute, Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference and elsewhere. Check out her website for more information.