Bastille Day
by Gail
Friday afternoon, Sting on the stereo wailing words
from my college days, and I'm putting off lunch again.
The heat drives me to the refrigerator and the lemonade.
As I drink it, I recall a tree
I used to climb in my parents' backyard,
the branch I used to ride all the way to Boston,
the closet I wiggled through to the attic and safety
when it was too wet or cold to go outside.
In all the fairy tales I read there, the bad king was overthrown,
and the prisoners went free. It happened in real life, too,
the Bastille raided, emptied, old men shading
their eyes against the sunlight.
It still happens.
The child walks out of the house
and leaves the monster behind.
Years later, the woman takes the next step,
walks out of her memories
into the heat and the sunlight.
