Watch Out For Falling Rocks

When someone I love more than life itself was seriously ill, he said two things I’ll never forget.  He said he hated it when people treated him like a prophet or a sage, just because he was sick.  He also said he could handle the days when he woke up in great pain, because the pain let him know that he was still alive.  

But wait…there’s a happy ending here.  He has been completely well for years now.  

I still think he’s a sage. 

.

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Edges

Julie Buffaloe-Yoder

Waking with a disease creates edges.

Edges of light around closed curtains,

beneath my morning door, the promise

of hospital corners, angular faces

with masks, the knife.

.

Edges are safe.

Without them, there is bottom,

beneath a cliff no one has seen,

the other thing I must avoid

by breathing.

.

Edges can be lovely, a dull hum,

the gentle bleeding of a tongue,

waking underwater shades of gray

puddled voices in the hall,

behind dark doors

elbowing slow into my sleep.

On those days, I can tolerate

pointless conversations about rain,

the spin of earth, breath, sky.

.

Sometimes the edges are angry,

a thousand thumping veins,

the drip of drops

in the crook of my spine.

On those days, the edges bite

my ribs, blacken my eyes, shove

slow blades beneath yellow nails,

swell the glands in my neck like fists,

leave me on bended knees, praying

by the bloody toilet, panting

under sweaty sheets, loving

every thin blue breath.

.

On those days, I cannot stand

the petty crusts of burnt bread,

neighbors with toothaches

and complaints about my dog.

Only the edges matter.

Only the edges are real.

.

When the edges weaken,

the slice of sheets grows small

and I am floating face down,

a jellyfish drying in sun.

The day is a rendering of skin,

lines that sift slowly, broken feet,

stopping an elevator between floors

to be able to breathe alone, in peace.

The nights are bright in the bathroom,

mirror sharp, thickening

red stars on the floor, crescents

of moons beneath my eyes.

.

No one understands why I love edges.

The edges are always there

in the pillow, the glass, the jagged trees,

each deep sharp blade of green. 

The edges are mine.

So full..  So full of me.

.

Life is not circular.

The earth remains flat.

The bottom, not so far away.

.

I can live with edges.

Edges are good, even those

that have eroded.

When I see splinters

of sky in the window,

when I taste the sharp

dark blood of my tongue,

when I hear the broken echo

crumble across the canyon,

I know the rocks have fallen

instead of me.

.