Sitting on the edge of consciousness,
the highest point of here. She
stares back down. Knowing. The human mind is trained to see
faces as we are to breathe and think and feel.
Her face beams sorrow. Why not?
My ankles cross, cut into the stone.
My fingers cold, dug into the dirt.
Soaking her light is choking on steam. How lonely
it must be. Glowing, giving, knowing in blackness, alone. Just a rock, but a pool.
A wishing pond of tears, beaten and angry. Centuries of poor girls forbidden
from another. Sweet copper tongue by penny wishes, knotted hair, wet hands.
She was and she will be. Long after I’m gone,
she will be. And I won’t. Thin, silver melancholy I crave,
still there. And I am not quite anywhere, just frequenting
the highest point of here. She
doesn’t reach out to hold me, to save me.
I could jump, for soon I won’t be. It’s tempting,
to slip through her fingers,
to touch her.
But I’ll sit, avoid trouble.

authors note: this poem was inspired by a painting I made