This Bright Edge

Poem by David Rothman

“No problem!” She raised her radiant hand and struck
Me smack down back down in the frozen mud.
Oh wonderful, great, this is just my luck,
An angry emissary out for blood.
“Not bad, considering you don’t exist,”
I said, and tried to get back on my feet.
“Not so fast,” she said and grabbed my wrist,
Then hurled me through a cloud of driving sleet.
Popped out the other side. The air thin, quiet.
Blue fading up to black. Apex. I floated.
So far away. Here no mistakes, no riot
Of love, no heart to which to be devoted.
Landed with a crash in someone’s hedge.
The vision? Gone. Her answer: this bright edge.