By Kaitlyn Sun

helium

the air here is thin. 
my lungs breathe it in.
the watercolour transparency 
makes my head spin, 
a helium balloon drifting 
from a child’s grasping hands.

my vision is floating.
ephemeral oval breaking the surface 
of the stratosphere, 
omniscient as God.
everything becomes so distant, 
inconsequential in the edgeless dark.

there will still be tomorrow

and when the time comes
for all things to be lifted 
translucently from the earth
there will still remain
the brightness of tomorrow—

there will still be trees 
and sunlight and shade 
the trees will still thread their roots 
tenaciously into the earth
the earth from which mushrooms
raise their white angelic heads
and leaves that shed in sunset colours 
will return to rot 
in grateful turn wildflowers will bloom
grass will brush between someone’s toes
dappled light will still kiss skin
and there will be children 
going into distant fields.

Kaitlyn Sun is a part-time poet and full-time magical girl. She fights mental demons with words. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Sad Girl Diaries, The Cackling Kettle, Bitter Melon Review, and Querencia Press, among others.