Frieda Christofides , The Wheel, 2021
Watercolor on paper, 8 x 6”
Courtesy of the artist
Artist’s Website, Instagram
Of course, there were coasters, the Thunder-
bolt, rickety as a wooden rocking bench,
and the way we let ourselves be thrown
right and left, hands up; below, people
unraveling their cotton candy plumes,
fries oily as a teenager’s hair, the funnel
cake a powdered Ferris wheel. Forward
High School Day—off from the gravity
of teachers’ advice, their fingers pointing
about jobs, college, potential, our bodies
weightless as gymnasts, the thrilling
mountains in the distance, the steady
sway of the Pirate Ship, how it moaned,
how we followed, dangling our feet
at the peak of hesitation, the Haunted
River, doors gaping to monsters tumbling
out to our surprise, and that new coaster,
written about, steel and smooth after we
waited so long in line and we were gleeful
until it stalled upside down and mid-loop,
we dangled. Strangely, no one screamed.
Just the silent glances right and left as if
to connect as we looked down at a soft
pretzel stand steaming. One hour,
legs so still, hands grasping our safety
harnesses, all the blooms around us
falling pink and red on the asphalt.