William McCarthy Verse-Virtual 2017 Marcg

March 2017

Thirty years ago I joined the Connecticut Writing Project and haven’t recovered yet. Since then, I've tendered my drafts almost monthly in a writing group of other recovering CWP teachers. There’s a closeness among us we get nowhere else, as we share bits and pieces of our lives — our trials with truculent pianos, unpredictable children, and failing parents. Part is honing our craft, part is shaping our experiences, part is understanding who we are.

The Edge

I tiptoe
to what I think is the edge
not sure exactly where the
edge is, not wanting to go
over it. For to go over
the edge has consequences
for me, for family and friends
though I’m not exactly sure
what they are. But always
there are consequences.
Of that I’m sure.

But what if
what I think is the edge
isn’t? What if I’m inches
or yards or even miles
from the edge? And here I am
with my toe feeling its way
so seriously in the dark, and
I’m not even close? How stupid
is that? But there’s no one
to ask, nothing to read
on the subject. For

the edge has a mind of its own, it
shifts and crumbles, which makes it
not really an edge at all, until

you go over it, and then
there are consequences.
Always. Of that I’m sure.

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