At The Pit

Dean Sobers

I remember
when the terror
led me to the street.
Them plunging headlong:
blind to the vacuum;
virtually irretrievable.
And me, kneeling at the edge.
Feet hooked in exposed
roots and fissures.
Grasping for whom I could.

At the pit.

In a dim part of my mind,
I’ve grabbed on by his hair
and he was screaming,
both from the hideous
jolt of pain, and the relief
at the potential for hope.
And my screams joined his,
refusing to let him fall,
while my whole
body growled and groaned.

But I know something since
has changed.
I’m pantomiming.
Murmuring when I was singing.
where once I was diving.
If one of them were
to snag the line now
on their way down,
the rod would be whipped down,
and as likely, me,
if I held to it.

At the pit.