Second poem of the day, taking Jo Bell’s prompt: what are you afraid of? Really? Write it. The last line of A.E Stalling’s Fear of Happiness informs this piece:
‘It’s that the ledge itself invents the leap.’ I’ve also stolen the sonnet form. I wanted this piece to read like the next of a set.
It’s that the ledge itself invites the leap
that makes me wary of the thrill and fall
of rollarcoasters, planes skidding clouds;
my first flight I was certain sure
that my seat alone would plummet from the sky.
Walking miles to gain a mountain height, I’m giddy
tearful at the top where winds rake you
like a gardener piling up dead leaves,
and as I peer at the edge that steadily
divides land and air, I’m more afraid than ever
that I will lose my head, think I can soar.
As a child I’d look at the short space
between me and a mirror and see
between us a millions miles of height.