The National Catholic Review
The honest power of a winter-shocked sun is doing its best
 
but it still looks like the scarce light is coming from the blue.
 
The sky among the clouds is like chipped paint—
 
nothing is falling, though.
 
Face your fears, they said. I remember
 
trying to forget all about that but here I am,
 
peering over a stinging-cold rail into calm, ample water
 
from way up. Not too high to obscure the reflection.
 
I am facing my face facing my fear of death as night’s black
 
ambulance rushes the day off. That’s fine.
 
That light was painted on anyway. Now, just the false-moon
 
shine of the streetlamps and houseboats’ porch lights.
 
Can our bodies sustain this earth? The practice
 
of statistics reminds us that we can know nothing for certain.
 
An enormous fly wanders into view like a lazy eye.
 
We need people who cannot bear the thought of a world
 
without the world. So face your fears.
 
Everything I know. Everything I know is nothing for sure.
 
My face is still and deep and maybe full of fish.
 
It is holding all that water down, away.
 
I stare at me until I look away: the first tint of morning,
 
glowing like the afterlife. I take the stairs to get down.
 
A flock of geese is eating grass
 
and it sounds like rain.
m.nicole.r.wildhood blogs at http://megan.thewildhoods.com. Her work has appeared in The Atticus Review, Ballard’s Journal of Street Poetry and Seattle’s street newspaper Real Change. She is at work on a novel and two full-length poetry volumes. This poem was a runner-up in America’s Foley Poetry Contest.

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