Threshold This grass so rainlacked I can hear the ghosts of my selves step with me. Splintering blades echo. snap my neck again and again. The distance between myself and my front door has never been so vast nor strike of snares this deafening. I don’t feel pain. I am afraid of being hurt by someone I trust or should trust. My mom. The dentist. God who I also call weather. Wind in the form of tornado. Hurricane. Lights out. Roof gone. I know how to swim but does that mean we need to be so ready to kick?
Bio:
Angie Dribben is an Autistic Appalachian artist and writer. Her debut collection, Everygirl, finalist for the 2020 Broadkill Review Dogfish Head Prize, was released with Main Street Rag. She is a past poetry contributor at Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference and holds an MFA from Randolph College. Her most recent work can be found or is forthcoming in Los Angeles Review, Orion, Coffin Bell, Split Rock Review, and others.
30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review
Well said!!! Thank you, Angie!
There are some terrific lines here. The opening sentence immediately grabbed me. The closing sentence too, though I took longer to get it. And several other phrases in between! It’s a thorny and disconcerting piece but it has such power.