Flying Island

Filled With Ladders, the World by Wendy Vergoz My father’s hands hold metal legs, I on the ladder’s penultimate rung last-but-one-any-higher-too-high. My father’s hands hold metal legs, I scoop wet leaves from the rooftop gutter, first-house gutter, wet brown leaves, soft green moss. I pry the screen off, sharp,    slide my fingers underneath, my fingers which,     long ago held white string, Jacob’s ladder.      Strong-girl hands with slender fingers hold Cat’s Cradle, Jacob’s ladder she climbs from seeds, from the singing bell the ringing bell, the bicycle bell the sweet-girl voice counts the ball and jacks singing Jacob’s ladder, fingering string and jacks                    and feet lift from the ground            to jump the rope to count to sing to lift...