On Belay

Poem

Three feet wide the ledge and above
One, bound to me by a thousand deaths,
Catclaws upon his universe. Balanced,
Caught with nails, outcrosses Self
Around the corners, clings firm,
And moves from night.
                                             Below,
A rotting silence; and beyond,
Pale haze.
                    A pause. The rope
Swings slack, grows taut again
And through my hands I feel once more
His upward surge. No motion now
Not guarded by my loins
(God grant them fast)
And the long cord spinning out
                                          all time.

 

Purchase this Issue

Share This Article With Someone

Share This Article With Someone