In Response to a Smirk

At the edge of the world is a rich pink sky

speckled with dust, an occasional feather

and drifting black insects

Messengers of annoyance and fear.

The vastness mocks our smallish thoughts 

and encourages us to jump into the abyss

or a possibility.

Only the jumper can make their intention known. 

Only the jumper can believe in the electricity of the open air.

Not jumping, one stays teetering on the edge a

mass of indecision.

Dendrites fire off and argue with synapses.

A brain at odds with the heart.

The body morphs into a stump holding up a never-ending seesaw

of a warring heart and a dream-crushing brain.

Or maybe the edge is too far off, 

the mudslides are too slick and convincing 

that drudgery beats the shit out of both the brain and the heart

and even the soul loses its way.

The pressure of the edge of the world closes in 

squeezing from the inside out. 

The ideas are sweat on the skin for a feather to float by and swipe them up.

It floats into the universe and waits for the bravery of a decision. 

It is stolen. Gone.

The feather catches an updraft, the feather dances, 

the insects have a ho-down on the feather.

And the jumper slips!

The insects laugh, they whisper, they conjure. 

They think the jumper will never believe the heart.

But one day, the jumper will smash all the insects 

And use the floating feather to mop up their broken pieces 

and stir them into the mud and make clods, pies, and balls

And let them bake in the sun

Resting in possibility.

By Daria Pardue