The Brink
       

Wynona Stone is having trouble broaching.
She likes to float. A quick sip now and then,
the one indulgence she can't not allow,

appeases. She felt surer in her skin
some years ago; things change. Don't ask her how.
It's not impossible to lose, with coaching,

your aim or sense of what you're shooting for.
Wynona Stone is having trouble broaching.
She tries to float; a stiff swig now and then

appeases some, though now arises more
than then. Today her mean-streak's kicking in.
She hates her job. She blames the jobs she quit

and jobs she didn't get. She blames before
and some day soon. She blames how much depends
on relatives, and how her next-worst choice

became the only out. Now she's a drawer
of knives, jammed shut. She blames the headset voice,
a fuzzy Nona, no she must ignore

while listing names—old flames and ex-best friends—
and hoping life has disappointed them.
It's tenuous. She wants to see beyond

the spite that casts her life in metaphor.
Wants to, but can't. Her mind's a rotten pond.
And doubt? A storm that's never not approaching.

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Copyright © 2015 Caki Wilkinson All rights reserved
from The Wynona Stone Poems
Persea Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission