On the Brink
S.P., 1975–1996
Annette Sisson
I remember your voice, how it soared
and dipped. You perched on the chair as if
touching its back might shatter something–
the wooden slats, or your shoulder.
The trip had changed you–the native people,
their lives so close to the earth.
Your words faltered, spilled. You retrieved them,
called this feeling the baobab tree–
you wanted to turn the world with your hands.
A month later you hiked to a tower,
scaled the scaffolding, hurled yourself off.
What ghost broke you? How
did the brain unfasten? Muddy snow,
twilight, your body still beside
the steel truss–haze descends,
thins under a slivered moon.
S.P., 1975–1996
Annette Sisson
I remember your voice, how it soared
and dipped. You perched on the chair as if
touching its back might shatter something–
the wooden slats, or your shoulder.
The trip had changed you–the native people,
their lives so close to the earth.
Your words faltered, spilled. You retrieved them,
called this feeling the baobab tree–
you wanted to turn the world with your hands.
A month later you hiked to a tower,
scaled the scaffolding, hurled yourself off.
What ghost broke you? How
did the brain unfasten? Muddy snow,
twilight, your body still beside
the steel truss–haze descends,
thins under a slivered moon.
Photo by Niko Photos