Thursday, August 11, 2011


It doesn't take trust to release yourself
from the top of a boulder—those assigned
to catch you would be just as happy
to watch you crack against the ground
or impale yourself on the dead fall from last
weekend's storm, and  maybe the man
who's been hired to make you all care
about catching each other found out
last night that his wife has a lover and
she took the good car and the ATM cards
while he was sleeping and is halfway
to Reno by now, five rolls of quarters
on end in a cup holder for tolls, and those
other people—the ones who are okay
with watching you split like a bored
teenager's pumpkin on Halloween—
they only pay attention when it's time
for them to climb the rock, time
for them to think about how much
time we spend finding ways to teach
ourselves how to fall and keep falling, so
no, it doesn't take trust so much as
indifference—if you burst against the ground
at their feet, that has to be okay, and only
then can you lean back into the afternoon
and watch the blurred treetops receding.

About Ruth Foley:
Ruth Foley lives in Massachusetts, where she teaches English at Wheaton College. Her recent work is appearing or forthcoming in Adanna, qarrtsiluni, Redheaded Stepchild, and Umbrella, which nominated one of her poems for a Pushcart Prize this year. She also serves as Associate Poetry Editor for Cider Press Review.

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