Blister

You woke up this morning
perched on a blister. Don’t protest:
you know it’s true. Hear me out:

you know it could burst
at any minute; you know
the fall into the leavings

will be dangerous, and 
you’ll be soaked with whatever
is in there. You understand 

the word “befouled”
as something more than
prediction, something less than

promise. You see you are both alone
and not alone at the same time:
those who fall when it tears open

may fall together or apart
and safe landing
with those who love you

is not guaranteed. Safe landing
is not guaranteed in any case,
and then there’s the matter

of the blister itself — whose hand
is it on, and will they choose to clench it
upon us all when it breaks?

All you have now is the sight of sky above,
the scent of the earth, the sound
of beloved voices, the taste of memory,

the touch of future. When it bursts
you will have the relief of 
the end of fear. When you land,

what you will have left of yourself
is unknown. You have this morning
now. That’s all any of us have now.