I am not the woman whose breath lurches
as he walks to the boulder’s edge and peers
down. You call him, he pretends not to hear
as you wait like an angel whose voice is
inaudible to mortal ears. You call
again, and I remember when he was
a child, I wept at nightmares of his loss.
Fear distant as the sources of these falls.
Kayaks bob below, regrouping for new
rapids, and I, a mother who has lost
this child to manhood, see how each must test
the bond of love. Soon, Margie, you will know
how sure his footing is, how your sweet voice
holds him a moment longer on that precipice.