I approach the edge, the edge greets me warmly
the way sleep sometimes does, sleep so precarious
I dream of the kitchen of a stilted house over a bay
of jawed leeches. Rain pummels the skylights and I stir
a pot of tomato soup. The surface of the milk dish
tilts and the chives roll down the countertop
and the birds topple off the birdfeeder and I wake.
When I wake, the edge is asleep in my bed, in my bed
clothes, and I curl up closely, the day almost upon us.
We never touch, but the edge breaths like I breathe,
and I know we shared that dream, the edge in my tipping
ladle, the edge in the creaking of the slogged dock wood,
the edge in the act of waking. In the pleasant equilibrium
of waking, the edge is less flirtatious. The steeple
does not toddle on its mantle, the shutters do not blink
one eye open, the bed, on its cast-iron wheels,
does not swing like a gurney. The edges sleeps. I watch.
The sea beneath laps a tongue, tries to know us but cannot
fathom edges. Unlike the sea, I greet him.
Jane Huffman’s poems are featured or forthcoming in Radar Poetry, Word Riot, RHINO Poetry, Cold Mountain Review, and elsewhere in print and online. She is an editorial assistant for Sundress Publications. Jane has a BA from Kalamazoo College in Theatre Arts and English, and is a MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop. She blogs at thisisthedeepend.com.