TRUST FALL

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.