The Holding Breath

My niece's hand is smaller than I remember.

We're locked in place, the coaster stopped,

the chain silent finally,

and the whole park spreads below us—

the fair, the parking lot, the edge of the city

becoming smaller and smaller.

Everyone stops talking.

That's the moment.

Not the fall, not the scream,

but this—

the held breath,

the waiting,

the part where you're alive

in a way you've forgotten how to be

in parking lots

and office buildings

and apartments with dust.

Someone's knuckles are white

against the safety bar.

I don't know whose hand it is.

The stomach drops

before the track does.

Physics or memory,

I can't tell the difference anymore.