CRITICA

I could see the bears in the sky;
and knew we were their puppets.
Three of them in deep angled armchairs, 

warm glow of lowlights.
Jolly and illuminated– 
they’re not yet drunk.

More sensical than God,
taught me the expansive but didn’t dictate.
They gave me the vertical;

horizontal plains of endless ocean – 
familial, sailing on the surface 
amongst “the folks.” 

But the thought of the ocean bed 
or of the bears, enveloped me
as if an underwater globe.

You know when you are under water but looking up?
And you see the rays of light coming down?
A different perspective and it all comes together. 

It was, as the story goes, just right.
I could be the baby bear again.
Though magic was always in the depths and heights.

Picture me perched three stories high    
on a railing, curve of coastline in the background. 
Fear was launched years later on the Pyramids.

Where I first met the panic breath. 
Too high and too much history 
brought out the dread of being on my own.

Now claustrophobia has populated the depths.
It is painful to be the one who doesn’t know 
in one moment and then must know in another.

A whiplash of deja vu.
I remember it but I am in the wrong place at the right time.
It is my daughter’s turn now to find her fear of heights.