Author Author Home  ·  How I Got Started  ·  Essays  ·  Articles  ·  Poetry Poetry ESCAPE First of all, it's Paris. We keep going there. Your hand presses into the small of my back, or your lips brush my ear, and the transportation is sudden: the breeze is lifting my skirt, the pavement is slick, Satie plays the piano, a man is preparing soup and we stare at each other in the shadow of the Tour Eiffel. The baby is there too, the one that knocks for admittance,-- so consistently over the years, that we each in our ways may have grown used to the sound, no longer hearing her message. We still can't see her, but she's here, in the dark pram of the future, bundled in white, with tiny feet, and with those tiny hands, a firm grip on our hearts. But it's the hand capturing that leg in flight: "and you thought you could escape," you said. How perfectly you've pursued me down the years, by walking in nothing but your own path. And yes you're right, we have to go there. Though we'll have been many times before the plane lowers its gears. ... Mara Purl: Published in The American Anthology of Poetry, 1996 CYCLE Flame on the edges of the tree the last extension of the roots, the red leaf flies from the branch and is caught in my hair. ... Mara Purl- Haiku: Published in The Villager, Bronxville, New York, 1996 Author Home  ·  How I Got Started  ·  Essays  ·  Articles  ·  Poetry

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