Imagine the person who first considered it— blowing air into rubber and calling it a toy. Did tires and basketballs precede these ethereal bimbos? I prefer to think of the balloon as a constant, something that came before, its cool skin stretching like sap teased from the tree.
2
Like their brothers, the six-pack soda holders, they advertise their menace discretely. Something about the ozone, or maybe it was birds, smothered and heartbroken trying to kiss their slippery tongues. Or was it kites, trapped in tree branches, ogling the aerodynamics of the lighter, freer balloon? There’s a reason they only show the child’s hand loosening the corset string and smiling, and not the sadness that comes after.
3
up, up, and I wrote you a message in tiny ink around the perimeter. I meant to gather enough to lift myself, my note, to sail like a merry band of Technicolor grapes to you. It said all the things I meant to say, precisely. When I blew it up the words were glorious, gaping mouths. I taped a needle to its neck and let it go.