by Carol Edwards

Jesus, You have Your hands firmly on this
it just doesn’t feel like it.

It feels like ground crumbling
web-thin cracks spread
as far as I can see
waiting for the slightest shift
to snap apart
but I need to move…

like an unlocked madhouse
inmates almost aware they’re free
me standing outside the gate
feet bound in concrete
waiting for my fate…

like the moment
under a rip tide wave
immobile from the weight
lungs about to burst
knowing it has to lift
but when…

like the Schrodinger’s box
just arrived
afraid to open it, look inside
equal parts hope and dread
hands frozen instead
but it can’t stay shut…

Jesus, You have Your hands firmly on this;
let me feel them on me, too
to reveal the cliff edge
an optical illusion.

Carol Edwards is a northern California native transplanted to southern Arizona. She lives and works in relative seclusion with her books, plants, and pets (+ husband). She grew up reading fantasy and classic literature, climbing trees, and acquiring frequent grass stains. She enjoys a coffee addiction and aspires to be a succulent mad scientist. Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, most recently in Open Skies Quarterly and Trouvaille Review, and forthcoming in Otherwise Engaged Literature and Arts Journal.

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