Poetry

In the Instant of Falling

Losing my footing there are things that I know: that I am falling; the floor is getting closer. Quickly. That it is concrete. This is not going to stop. And Oh! It’s going to hurt. It could be serious. And I can do nothing. Is this what it’s like—the end? Like my repeated nightmare —being before a firing squad, waiting for a bullet already fired to reach. That instant of impact, the slow abrading of the skin. Like watching you, Dad, Oh, my father. Already well on your way what was happening, tell me, what did you see? You, God’s…

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