  |
the conflictI am born of wasp’s milk.When I sting, it is with an impulsive ferventness all too common for my age. Nibbling on the margined slices of planed trees, if I feel decadent, a flower. I’ll fling a sticky wad of sap at the ear of my chortling comrade. It is all ironic chivalry. I can soak up two buckets of sunshine in a single slurp, and clip the ace at five hundred yards. The target will crumple as the ray bounces off the waxy face. In a dream, perhaps, I caught the ray in my palm, and the polish melted off my fingers, streaming silvery among the shards of brilliant sunshine. I could eat another flower but I would still grasp the decadence in my palm and not on my tongue. To swallow a ball of celestial light would leave me a victim of Io – vortexes swimming in shards of rock and ash. None of these could I catch in my palm; I am left to crumble like my own ace, a noble feat, my name etched elsewhere. Sarah Thomas RIVER REVIEW 2008-2009- GIRLS PREPARATORY HOOLL |
 |