Common House Magazine

The height is not the issue. Feet

planted at the edge, rail eschewed

for the feel of wind on your belly, Colorado

burbling a mile below. Sun dims

as it slides behind the mountains.

They told you—they all told you—

to never look down, but you took

that as a challenge. Of course.

There is nothing but air,

the occasional outcrop, ground

so far below you can’t even make

out its color.

It’s the memory

of the white buffalo who lives

just off Route 180. It’s the feel

of ribs that crack from the inside,

adrenaline shock and endorphin breeze.

It’s the shot of dilaudid to the vena

cava, the certainty that you have never

breathed air this pure before, the quest

for the one great thing in your life.

There

is what is meet, and there is what is

right. You do not hesitate, put one foot

in front of the other.