Migrating to Elwood City

after Sue Ellen

Here, trees tap-dance like the ghosts of nomads – red curls, invisible hands, fear, everything else that adults cannot see. Confection across the housetop – do you think they have kids? Here’s what it’s like to come from a sugarless world. Now I migrate between cavities, thread tongue between lips, hear screaming down the streets. I promise, invisible people won’t chase you down the streets, if they have kids, anyway. There’s been a heist at the art museum – is it the immigrant? the child? the security guard? None of those, really. I can’t roll the Mona Lisa into my backpack or conquer the world. Even spaceships are made of earth-metals. I wonder how many lies can thrive in one town. They die away, soon.