Fine Circle (or the poem I unfortunately cannot share with anyone): Heather Carr

It’s called ‘ideation’,
that feeling you get in oncoming traffic,
a casual swerve into the median,
stepping off the innocent curb,
as if it were the edge of a subway platform,
walking down the sidewalk,
as if each footfall will carry you off the brink,
taking pictures from a balcony,
and wondering what would happen if you slipped,
after a while it crosses the sharp line,
from ‘ideation’ to ‘intent’,
stopping shortly before ‘gesture’ or ‘attempt’,
another crisis call,
another taxi to the CRC,
and then another hospital stay,
on plastic cutlery and SO,
malfitted hospital pajamas,
bra-less,
shoe-less,
a pair of socks your makeshift stuffed animal,
six weeks of environmental relief,
shipped out into the bright blue day,
full of medians, curbs, sidewalks and balconies,
reborn as the cycle begins anew.