Precipice

by Nancy Diamante Bonazzoli

In truth
there is
none but
Silence
which comprehends
us though we
like spotted starlings’
so many voices
like to claim
we know
it
all.

Such is
life
delusion.

And yet, at
times a creeping
doubt
embraces,
a painful gnaw
a crushing
ache through
loin
and mind and heart

chastens what we’ve been
enough
to humble what we’ve
known until
we’re less afraid to look
and more inclined to
listen, held womb-like by

such wet despair.
I stand on the precipice,
hands numb, face dripping
turned
into the howling

wind I want to feel.

Will it take
a desperate
hurl of all I’ve
been a
sloughing off
of liberties
for freedom?

Like Sampson will
I use my strength
to yank the
chains that bind
me to my
temple’s pillars

to crush upon me
this and that
and die
intact alive
within the
vision?

Or is there another way?