The line.
We are all floating in a line,
arms stretched wide and only hands,
fingers,
skin,
sweat,
holding us
together.
We are all trying to belong
to each other: a group.
But we can’t
because it’s only one person to two – one either side of you –
some grasping tightly, interlocked,
some barely holding on,
all one after the other.
We can’t turn to see each other down the line.
And what or who tethers us to the earth below
as we all drift outwards, unfurling
like one long ribbon into space?
Who is holding your hand?
Where does it end?
I couldn’t tell you, for
I am too far down the line
to know.
