head in the ground, feet on the clouds
                                                         Jessica Robinson



so they told you that the lucky boys sleep with clouds—
and you’d never even seen one up close. naturally,
you were only touching the funny, deformed imitations.

some boys pretended they’d never even heard of clouds.
some boys swore they had one tucked safe under their pillows,
they’d show you when you slept over, next time, next time. you

moved your mouth into the shape you imagined a very small cloud
would take. you would sleep with your lips pursed just like that.
so they told you that clouds don't actually float close enough

for you to touch anymore—and you were already living with your hands
pressed together, cupped, water slowly slipping through. you never thought
clouds might be cold to the touch. who would want to shiver in

their sleep?     you were banned from the libraries, the public pools.
the school would’ve sent you home, too, if they could’ve. you were already
sitting with your feet lifted a couple inches off the ground.

you figured clouds could be compact when necessary. so they told you
that some words look the same when they’re in the air but taste different when
they’re in your mouth—and you weren’t listening anymore, or you were trying

to listen but you couldn’t even hear them, and you thought maybe
it was because you had clouds in your ears, only you’d never really
seen one up close.