amy j. — Manasvi Nalasani

teeter-tottering over the bridge 
dark blue waters rush beneath
screaming, shouting, calling 
her pink tennis shoes 

she laughs
the sound ripples like the current 

on a tightrope
arms outstretched, 
reaching 

I call out 
“what if you fall in” 
but she doesn’t turn —
only wobbles, steadies,
and keeps walking. 

the river hums its warning.
the sky holds its breath.

there was once a time
she’d answer 
once a time
i’d reach her
before the water did.

couldn’t help her now 
the birds chirp, 
keep singing
as if the water never splashed 

just a rock in the ocean 

but now she is a snowglobe 
on my mantle, 
the pictures of people forgotten 
as the snow swirls around 

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Manasvi Nalasani is a poet from Texas whose work explores loss and the strangeness of growing up. When she isn't writing, she’s probably painting landscapes that look nothing like the real thing and listening to music.