I stood at the edge for so many days
contemplating when to jump, how to jump,
if I should jump at all.
Today I did just that -
jumped, arms outstretched, feet slipping, a scream buried in my throat -
and I am still falling through the shocking air,
I can feel the sea spray on my face;
I will either find my wings
or shatter my bones on the surface.
Right now, I can’t decide which I’d prefer.
-rjm
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Jo McCrory is a writer and artist living in northern California.
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Poaching lines from my old drafts to make a weird poem; this was kind of fun! How many different drafts do you think are represented here?
I watch pelicans fly along the shore watch as they periodically dive straight down into the water I think to them the water tastes like broth, comforting and familiar on their tongues I smell his skin, the halting blend of ocean air, sweat, weed, and rum Under the stars and the moon, beside the abyss of the Pacific, he is hauntingly vague and flawless I smell the ocean, thick with salt and brine, and all at once I feel like a boulder tumbling down a hill This is the story of how I was born Everyone else has gone home gone to the beds of their lovers to other bars and other pursuits but two stay behind as entranced by the music as they are by each other I could taste the edge of danger on the tip of my tongue I could taste his indifference, too The moonlight spilling in through the bedroom window hugs her profile I watch silently as her chest rises and falls In the distance, somewhere along the horizon, lightning flares up, bouncing around inside a bank of clouds and as I wait for the thunder, I realise that it has been rolling quietly through the night, unnoticed and oddly comforting. My eyes trace the curve of her face down to her neck, over all of her until I am staring at the floor and the words I need to say echo around in my brain sounding too proper, too cold, too necessary -rjm
loose threads 