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.