(Albert Lamorisse, 1956)
Tribes of boys are jealous of the one
tethered to the red balloon. Adults
don’t seem to understand him either.
See, the boy runs with his balloon
trailing behind him; even when he
opens his grip, the balloon obeys
and, as if it had legs, runs
alongside him. Can you see?
Even in the silences between them,
even when the boy is not there,
even when the boy cannot come
to play, the balloon—the boy’s
secret, this one boy’s one friend—
remains loyal, rising and falling
right along with the boy.
The balloon keeps returning,
around every corner, down every alleyway,
and as more of its fidelity reveals,
the other boys try to destroy its élan,
but the balloon simply gathers more
balloons, and something common to this boy
appears fantastic to others: He gathers
the strings attached to the balloon
bouquet. He takes flight over the city,
until he’s even more of a mystery
in the squinting eyes of the boys,
the boys looking into the sun,
which gleams like a future too bright
to look into. The boys
wield slingshots to bring him
back down to the soil, the soil
which does not stir beneath their shoes
like the clouds do beneath his
as he continues to float beyond
their skinned-kneed jealousies,
as the rectrices of his feet
steer clear of their stones.
And then their mouths hang agape.
And then there is no hope; his floating away,
his act of no-act-at-all for him, is already
too many octaves above their voices.