How To Move

by Christopher Bowen

You move, tracing the back of the ear to the corner of the mouth with the forefinger to another's face. Trace the line back to capture the construct. Pull an unseen quarter from behind the ear of a child. Go back the way you came following the footprints you left there.

This is how to move the beat of butterfly wings drying in the sun. The ripples here and the ocean, too. Place the foot in front of the other to make a string of these. The kaleidoscope to look through, the kind we made as kids with cardboard tubes and colored plastic wrap, wrap the string around so you remember the feeling now when you look through it.

Stretch yourself far like a whole-hearted sunrise that bridges oceans together like a band-aid. Place the band-aid on the heart so it can grow again. There's a flower in there veering out of control in melting snow. There's not many and it's yellow. You take it as a sign and take it to heart, saying you aren't afraid of flowers anymore. You learn later it could be a rose with thorns. But that's how you learned to move through life, you always said.