There is no poetry where there are no mistakes. | Joy Harjo, Muskogee Tribe
Sometimes there are no words here in this bedroom. Sometimes they leave me. Or they come another time. Late at night. Waking me from a deep sleep. Terrorizing me, they leave me numb. Like when I dreamt that I was climbing the edge of the earth I could feel the gravity and worshiped its vitality, the very cause for why I’m not simply floating in the vast dark and empty space beyond. Infinite beyond grasp. Beyond madness. Beyond. No sight. No sound. No safety. Beyond. So I climb along the edge, and I could feel a sense of sinking in the sand and the fear that I could very well fall off its axis albeit with an accepting reproach that this was the way. The only way. To the top. Of the earth. I hang on for dear life and climb higher and higher, the black hole of space touching my back as I stay glued like an infant to its mother’s breast, this here sand-ridden earth. The precious, tiny space that would preserve my life. Nothing could haunt me more.