Ferris Wheel

I didn't want to die. That day
you took me to California Adventure
Park, the sucky twin
to Disneyland, place of magic
and an animatronic Abraham
Lincoln. Still,

with my face and fists
pinched up like shrunken underwear
you brought me like a load of laundry
to the Ferris Wheel, the ride
swinging in the air like a death sentence.

I wanted to go home. I wanted
cotton candy. Not this death-trap,
this winding machine of hellish
revolution. Did you see!?
One of those cars was shaking!
It's on purpose?!
Is that supposed to be fun!?

I was still small back then. Terrified
of anything faster than our Nissan Quest,
which we rode here, along
with my sister's friends
who looked like candy sticks,
colorful and thin.

I didn't know we were having money trouble.
Or that Grandma was tyrannical towards you,
leaving you with the same feeling of neglect
I had, every time you had to leave for work
rolling dumplings to hold off deficit.

I didn't know that the world
was crueler than any
amusement park ride.

You, Mommy,
knowing of my ignorance,
sped through the line with my
pout firming up like yeasted dough.
Getting to the front, you asked
for a swinging car, while I
went limp in your arms, a
fearful doll
trying to anchor my
feet to the ground.

You lifted me effortlessly.

I remember, even then
I was overweight, and spoiled,
scared of every new world,
every dish, every book,
every car ride to a place I didn't know.

And yet,
it was like the movement of your arms
swinging my fat (sixsevenyearold) ass
into that Ferris wheel car
as it lifted off the ground—
It—
It—

It was like being cradled in the sky.
So scared of taking off, I clutched
to your lap, near ready
to wet my pants, you pointed
my face out the window, and

I saw the world open up.