On the edge
I'm nine again
standing
daringly atop the stairs bannister,
wearing my Holly-Hobbie flannelled gown.
Artex ceiling barnacles rough against my palms.
I can smell onions, coal, and doom.

On that edge
I imagine
falling,
flying like an angel.
Butterfly arms carrying me skyward
away, away from frozen failure,
just like Daddy will.

On this edge
I'm no longer nine,
I'm waiting,
longer than my nine-year-self would have.
Waiting for the crescendo
in my glass-heart to choose,
fall hard or rage harder.