At the edge of knowing everything, It is silent—

At the edge of knowing everything, 
It is silent—

                      And itʼs cold, all the way up here,
         Bitter and spiteful, the wind leers, it scowls, it contorts air current like lines in the face
         of my father who never wanted a girl, who never asked for this

But the meek sun whispers small light
And if there wasnʼt a reason before, there is now:
To spark, to glimmer, to glow: do not go quietly, do not go QUIETLY, DO NOT GO QUIETLY,
DO NOT—

                                                                       [the wind howls]

At the edge of it all,
I wonder if they will remember me.
I wonder if this is what they will remember me for.
The sky says nothing. Maw open wide, it pants, groans, salivates, gnashes its teeth, but I say
nothing and it says nothing so there we stand: watching each other, listening to the wind.

I see the top of my scalp amongst the mountain laurel, beat bloody and raw by the profundity of
it all, of this miracle.

                                              It smells of wildflowers.

Muscles strain and eyes flutter shut but Iʼm not ready, not yet, not now—

At the edge of the universe,
I dig crescent shaped fingernail marks like tender blood moons into the heel of my hand, hope
the hurt will bring me back:                                                                                                                                                        Hope it hooks a pinky in my shirtcollar and yanks me backwards, back from the                                                              deep-end-pool-ledge, back from the edge.                                                                                                                 but the wind waits for no one.

The sky beckons; I answer
A skip and a hop and beautiful ballerina leap
and I am falling, but I am flying, and the wind screams in my ears:
RAGE, RAGE, AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT
RAGE, RAGE—