We stand in the midst of a transition where one cannot remain standing.

   -Simone Weil

There is a child at this threshold, one foot hovering, hand
pressed to the frame. A thin wind moves through late light,

the smell of something burning—a leaf pile, maybe dinner.
a low hum, near singing & she whispers———- where to now?

Raise your right hand. Questions about roots summon the jury
to witness, but who can stand? Being is more than knowing

apprehends—but answer this: what essence can you find
outside this? —–Yes or no. ——No further questions, Your Honor.

During recess, a single wing, flickering light; boxed, unboxed,
boxed again. We tape our signs down, not to be moved.

In this adhesive silence, those who object to being specimens
become objects. The study proceeds, taped mouths facing sky.

Bells demand that we resume. Where were we—At a threshold,
trying to begin. This calling again, but who and for what?

The engine’s speed hurls us back again. Before the boxing, before
the tape— The child’s voice remains, still in whisper. But what

shifts now in the air, of light gone to ash. what burns, not dinner.
what hum falters—then disappears ———-———-almost.

/

Stacey C. Johnson is a writer and teacher working in a variety of forms. She is the author of Flight Songs (Finishing Line Press, 2024), and her essays, poems, fiction, and hybrid work have appeared widely in literary journals and anthologies. She teaches literature and creative writing and is currently working on a book-length project exploring creativity, care, and survival in precarious times. Her work often examines language as a practice of attention and resistance in moments of personal and collective precarity.