Understand, I am only
ever clawing out the eyes
with earth-embedded nails
as a fair exchange for the ability
to hear a siren so silent, it is often
mistaken for newly hatched sparrows.
Upon the rim of the canyon,
skirting and slipping closer,
daring the edge to hold strong
these feet: the vastness is seductive,
the void, with rivers rushing
at the bottom, so far away, and so
quiet. The soul stirs like feathers
on the wind, or motes on a sunbeam.
Newborn that I am, that I will only
ever be, I could jump, wingless,
and land within the source of life
with hardly a cry as it takes
my body. If you think this sacrifice
is about finality, you did not listen
to the gore, the hunger, the flight.
Instead you looked, and searched,
and hopelessly tried to uncover
a lore meant to be remembered
and fatefully forgotten.
Placed 2nd in the 2015 Poetry Sans Frontieres "Call of the Wild" Contest.