The Way Down
I leaned over the edge of the world this morning
and looked out to what remained.
Hairs on my arms stood to warn me,
or put up their fists. Down the steps
into a yawning mouth, dog on the rug, a thousand
empty lungs. Like air is all I have.
Mosaics of fingernail squares measured the distance,
a wish to push on the wind’s full lip, drown in lack
of water, crush me into wine, like whether a blink
generates a profusion of wind.
Perhaps a Dresden muse and Aphrodite can stand level.
I thought her hand matched my hand,
but I couldn’t hold up marble robes or bounce
a bronze cherub on my knee.
Daisies watch it all, swirling inside irises,
making my feet and brain spin, bathed in gold,
larger than I’ve ever seen them.
Jiannaka Limonta is a twenty-something living in Puyallup, Washington, still figuring it all out, and writing every chance she gets. She has a bachelor’s degree in creative writing from the University of Washington. This is her debut poetry publication.