Random Act

by Maria Surricchio

Imagine you can’t leave it behind.
You mean to leave, but you can’t.

You try to cast your lot into the blue
beyond the window —

and your soul doesn’t plummet
or soar. It snags on the edge

and you’re stuck, flutter there
for days or more, transparent

above the glow of street lights,
while everyone comes and goes.

It might take a hook buried deep
in flesh to pull you off the ledge:

a mortification, the ritual of a stranger
thousands of miles away

who drags a chariot brimming with
blossoms through ecstatic crowds

as ropes tug at the hooks.
They dance and spin, shed

the weight of blood and bone–
nerves sing, tissues swell

dense with praise, the leathery
heart stretched open.

A random act. They’re not out
to save your skin.

Still, you’re stitched together,
one dislodged by another’s

untethered grace.
Imagine if this is how it works.

Someone has to love life this much
before you’re allowed to go.