she pours excess life
into its limp rubber body
breath, not helium;
she has not learned ambition
so she cannot ward against it
she transmutes air to waxen wings
— how grounded, to make a toy
of her spent vitality
it shudders with each breath
terrified of vacuous substance
of implanted purpose
she is only finished
when its skin strains to burst
a puff or a poke away
from violent oblivion
she ties it shut, admitting
no further contribution
the balloon is grateful,
after a bit of play;
it would collect dust
without her
better to be made
waste than not at all
it delights at every smack:
the pure joy of physics,
the relief of masochism
the balloon cannot distinguish
abandonment and negligence
a matter of words
the result is the same:
she throws it to the wind
up and away it goes,
safe from her,
and lonely
will it deflate
before it pops
will it be too high up
for her to notice
or to care