edge

By: Mickey Gustin Hardman
TABLE OF CONTENTS

At the edge

of the precipice 

I wonder how long

my white-knuckled grip

can hold.

A hand extends,

my fingers link to hers

and hold as my body slides 

onto the undulating, humming

aurora that assures

the earth spins round.

Looking for what was, 

maybe is, a life,

I ask her,

“do I, did I have one?”

She assures me I’ll see it soon,

connected, twining, sharing

never before or again the same.

She entitles me 

to interact with spirits

that weave into a wrap

scraps from every source,

edges integrating

to hold me tight

in the globe of self.

Gravity will never let me go

to a bottomlessness

of not knowing.

She steeled my grip at the edge

to know that, yes, I was a life.

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