POST 104: Poem, Painting, Fear, Biking, Maine, Carol Bass, ART

by Carol Bass


They loom
out of the ditch
as I make my turn
at the bottom of the hill
shifting down
to make the turnaround up hill

First time
a dark dread began oozing
like the Blob in the
scary movie
What if I failed to make the turn
and landed on my head in the rocks
one piercing corner could
take one eye out
and lodge in the soft matter
of the brain
one edge could rip
my soft cheek
blood would ooze all down my breasts
both wrists would be shattered

the neighbors, leaning over granola
at their breakfast tables
smokey clots suddenly forming
in their throats,
would be unable to swallow
and suffocate to death
in their chairs

But ease the grip
let the energy flow
and the handle bars
will guide me around the curve
past the stones
up the hill

Next time and next time
practice and practice
only this