Ida Kotyuk


Under the Gallery's 100' ceiling

Calder's one-ton, motorless mobile,

twists and turns, manipulated

by an endless stream of visitors

as they pulse from nearby revolving doors.


Tourists idly chatter under his mobile,

their words a barrage of indifferent air,

with puffs here and puffs there, unaware.

Unaware of their puffs of influence.


It, like my small plastic imitation at home,

shifts its shape, helpless to the events around it;

no different from all the dandelion puffs in my backyard.


Gazing up, I sit as witness to sounds of air and watch

until, finally, I recognize—me

reacting to society's whims who tell me how to live.


Their indistinguishable voices filled my air

with puffs of:

"do this,"

"do that,"

"you should,"

"you shouldn’t,"


and I understood—

unlike Calder's involuntary mobile,

unlike the dandelions in my backyard,

I have always had a choice.