Parallax

• Nathan McNamara, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2009

We rode bicycles over a mountainside made of cheap street crack and wine.
‘Michelangelo,’ she said, ‘these walls ain’t even half as tall as what we thought they
were. Look, you can see all of the sky tonight. Oh, you can see all of the sky!’
She asked for a statue, and I carved her out a marble portrait of the moon.
‘Baby,’ she spoke, ‘why the moon?’
‘Without the sun to light it up, it’s just another rock.’
‘Let’s go,’ she sung.
We found shovels in our empty garden bed, and dug until we hit water.
‘We’re stuck,’ I cried, ‘we’re really goddamn stuck.’
‘Close your eyes - we’re in a ship, okay? And we’re sailing through a stream of
cement and bricks, and we’re not stuck, okay? Just close your eyes and paddle, like this.’
I cupped a hand against the sunlight. Her eyes were mirrors in a morning so bright.
There were birds dancing like kites strung up for a day parade,
and there were old trees and soft hills and low rolling meadows.
For a moment the sun swung behind a cloud. ‘The moon never looked so alight.’
As she laughed I placed a frame around her neck and made her a masterpiece.