When you’re on the edge of a century,
there is a need for stillness.
Because the fragile equilibrium,
of who is and who isn’t
is heavy on the mind.
Because you are on the
cusp of repeating yourself.
Rewalking the decade you were born
heel to toe and softly, fearing gravity.
When you’re on the edge of a century,
there are fewer people
who remember the cataclysm of war,
because a new war has begun.
The trees taper in such a way
even the arch of their knuckles
hold a history,
Tightly rounded and compressed
by ninety years of pressure,
as small globes emerging between bones.
When you’re on the edge,
you’d expect a century to look
a little less like itself.
Full of newness and breath,
but maybe it’s your craving for greenness.
A last chance to dig your fingers
into the ground and pull up a blade of grass
To drag its belly
on the inside of your palm,
to place an ear to the ground
listening for a breath.
Cover and the poet’s portrait from finishinglinepress.com
Megan Krupa is the author of the chapbook Heirloom.
Her work has appeared in BOAAT, Broad River Review, and Driftwood Press among others. She is a Clinical Instructor at East Tennessee State University and a PhD student at the University of Tennessee.
