Levity

by Lisa M. Bradley


The girl does not levitate,
it's the chair.
Harvested from sacred sycamore
baptized by woodworker's blood
varnished by grandmothers' and
great- great- great's grips,
the chair waited until science
learned to see long, if not deep
before flaunting its truth
during the daguerreotype.
Lifting the girl was a Newtonian accident.
Though the apple of her father's eye,
the girl has no magic
has no ideas, even,
when we argue how or
whether to keep the furniture
anchored.
Thus we duck, at the mercy
of this inconvenient miracle,
this unfortunately lofty
chair.


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Lisa M. Bradley resides in Iowa with her spouse, child, and two cats. Her short fiction and poetry have infiltrated Stone Telling, Strange Horizons, Cicada, and other publications. She loves gothic country and Americana music, broken taboos, Spanglish, and horror films—evidence of which you'll find in her collection, The Haunted Girl (Aqueduct Press 2014). She blogs at cafenowhere.livejournal.com and tweets 'n' tumbles as cafenowhere.

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