Wednesday, February 11, 2015


I've been thinking a lot about living in the borderlands (continuing on from recent posts).  I think I may be sticking with this theme for a while.  And it relates to the theme of the importance of place that Deena Metzger raised in the workshop I went to this fall.  Today, out of the blue (which is often how poems come to me), I wrote the following:

feeling untethered
and unraveling,
I found myself
at the edge
of a great void,
toes jutting out
into emptiness,
breath caught
in my chest.
I couldn’t help
but peek over.
All I saw was
nothingness, and
fear gripped my heart
and squeezed.

Slowly and carefully,
I exhaled and
forced my feet to
shuffle back
onto solid ground.
Since that time
I have mostly
stayed safely away
from the edge.
I knitted myself
back together.
But I live now
on the fringes,
not far from
the precipice.

Why do I do this?
Living close to my fear is also
living with the brightest, deepest,
most vibrant colors.
This is where
my people are.
This is where
I have made my home.
This is where
the intensity of living
beats most clearly.
Living in the
borderlands requires
all we have and
all we are.
Where else
should I be?

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