& (ten)
J.A. Tyler

A girl, the one flying, she wears her hair in pigtails, she wears her hair in knots, she wears her hair up and over, bridges crossing her shoulders, diagrams of weight and weightlessness. A girl in her hands, with their finite lines and the curve of fingerprints that say nothing. She says nothing, This girl, she smiles. The sky blue a reflection of her smile. She shatters the wind with her flying, combs its ribbons, the rowing of her oars. She is headed to a point, a distance, and she will arrive. She will find a destination. She becomes a destination. Her hair is a destination, streaming out.

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