Shannon K. Winston
Memory in Three Acts
After Shira Erlichman
After Shira Erlichman
My Bike
Bloomington, Indiana
My bike is bright pink: I’d like to think
it’s recognizable anywhere, as in no one
would steal it because it’s both
coy and badass. A bike: as in, a piece
of metal with two thick wheels
that hurl me faster, faster down a hill
until I squeeze the brakes.
I shouldn’t be going that fast,
and by fast, I mean flying.
I can fly: the only outright lie
I told in 7th grade.
The neighborhood kids looked on
as I sailed, full force, into the curb
on the $25 bike my mother
bought me at a yard sale.
The sting came first, then the blood.
My grandmother wailed
on the telephone: she’s lost
her womanhood.
All I could think about
was warm baths and Epsom salts
and getting out of gym class.
But when the doctor asked
if I had any questions,
I followed up:
does this mean I’m no longer
a virgin? And by that question
I meant: am I worthy of love?
Aerodynamics are easier
to explain: the way handlebars
in the earliest bikes were once
stationary, the way bikes
were like skateboards insofar
as you kicked the ground
to move. In my midwestern
town, a boy raced around a track,
spouting Italian and hoping for–
if not love, then a miracle,
or at least, a faster outcome.
I’m no different. I bike through
town, in and out of traffic.
I curse in low gears, giggle in high gears.
I bike my bike because my bike
lets me…. okay, not fly but almost.
When people tell me about faith,
I nod as if I get it.
I picture an angel with handlebar-wings
and roller blades tethered to her feet.
Bloomington, Indiana
My bike is bright pink: I’d like to think
it’s recognizable anywhere, as in no one
would steal it because it’s both
coy and badass. A bike: as in, a piece
of metal with two thick wheels
that hurl me faster, faster down a hill
until I squeeze the brakes.
I shouldn’t be going that fast,
and by fast, I mean flying.
I can fly: the only outright lie
I told in 7th grade.
The neighborhood kids looked on
as I sailed, full force, into the curb
on the $25 bike my mother
bought me at a yard sale.
The sting came first, then the blood.
My grandmother wailed
on the telephone: she’s lost
her womanhood.
All I could think about
was warm baths and Epsom salts
and getting out of gym class.
But when the doctor asked
if I had any questions,
I followed up:
does this mean I’m no longer
a virgin? And by that question
I meant: am I worthy of love?
Aerodynamics are easier
to explain: the way handlebars
in the earliest bikes were once
stationary, the way bikes
were like skateboards insofar
as you kicked the ground
to move. In my midwestern
town, a boy raced around a track,
spouting Italian and hoping for–
if not love, then a miracle,
or at least, a faster outcome.
I’m no different. I bike through
town, in and out of traffic.
I curse in low gears, giggle in high gears.
I bike my bike because my bike
lets me…. okay, not fly but almost.
When people tell me about faith,
I nod as if I get it.
I picture an angel with handlebar-wings
and roller blades tethered to her feet.
--
Shannon K. Winston is the author of The Worry Dolls (Glass Lyre Press, forthcoming) and The Girl Who Talked to Paintings (Glass Lyre Press, 2021). Her individual poems have appeared in Bracken, Cider Press Review, Los Angeles Review, RHINO Poetry, SWWIM Every Day, West Trestle Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana with her partner and dog.
Shannon K. Winston is the author of The Worry Dolls (Glass Lyre Press, forthcoming) and The Girl Who Talked to Paintings (Glass Lyre Press, 2021). Her individual poems have appeared in Bracken, Cider Press Review, Los Angeles Review, RHINO Poetry, SWWIM Every Day, West Trestle Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Bloomington, Indiana with her partner and dog.