Sara Blake
The Choice

There’s that place—
you know it too—
or not so much a place
but an edge
between two places
where I can’t stand
(because after all,
feet need a place.)
Feet can’t float or fracture
the way I’m floating
and fractured now.

If I can divide myself cleanly,
straight down the middle
with a blade,
like two halves of a plum,
then maybe I can stand
in both places.
But I don’t know how
a heart beats
without the rest of
its parts.

I’ll have to be bigger, then.
Take up the whole space.
And swallow up both
halves inside me
so that instead of moving
to this room, or to that,
I'll become the whole house.

When I need to, I might
turn down all the lights,
not budge from the
same worn chair
that still holds me like a womb.

But other times, like now,
I might climb all the way to the roof
to get a better look
at the stars.
The shingled pitch is so steep
that it makes my heart
leap with fear, not because
I might fall, but because
I’m free in the open air
to chose.