Brandel France de Bravo“Someone asked me—what’s the use of a balloon?
I replied—what’s the use of a newborn baby?”
The Polaroid, fossil within a fossil,
walk-on-the-moon wondrous, bygone
the way a hot air balloon will never be,
is of me: on my seventh birthday.
Nucleus in an atom of girls, face
upturned, I am beaming at party
balloons—translucent orbs of blue,
yellow, red, green—we’ve punched
and head-butted to the ceiling, forever
out of reach in the photo, our arms
permanently outstretched to catch.
How moving this square of stasis,
arbitrary reliquary that inspires
not devotion but revision, the power
to see again, through polychrome-tinted
latex glasses: crepe streamers, pony tails,
sugar rose dresses, smocking and tulle.
The instant in its corset glints black garnet
and jet, mourning jewelry in a velvet box.
In 1783 two brothers put a cloud
in a paper bag, and a… Read more »