everything is precarious, did i tell you?

standing atop a foot-high cement wall, waiting to jump, staring at the low hedge between you and the grass on the other side.  it’s not far.  it’s not high.  even if you don’t clear the bushes, you’ll be okay, won’t you?  a few scratches, a bruise, some leaves in your hair.  jump.

the chopsticks in your hand squeeze what could be your first bite of sushi.  you’re not good with chopsticks, and your hands shake as you examine it.  it’s cold.  slimy.  covered with sesame seeds and belted to a clump of rice with a papery dark band of seaweed.  despite the fact that you know many people who’ve consumed it and lived, you’ve always thought of raw fish as something that would make you die.  immediately.  and even if you don’t die, you’ll probably get indigestion, which on a date would be embarrassing.  maybe you shouldn’t eat it.

there’s no way you can climb that tree.  just look at it.

and what if the ice breaks and you fall into the frozen stream below?  and what if you don’t make it across the sluice and you fall into the spring slime, and your head cracks open on the raw cement edge like an egg on the rim of some crude mixing bowl?  your yolk and white and shell would slide down to the reservoir, mixing with the sludge to bake in the sun.  what if it’s gross?  what if you fall?  what if you die?

to watch my trepidation is, i imagine, like a car accident heard from safely inside your apartment.  the slow squeal of brakes leads up to a brief but interminable silence during which you wonder if, and when, the crash is going to occur.  and then it does–i jump, without thinking, and the ground rushes at me like a speeding license plate.  the ice blurs below my sliding shoes like fast freeway concrete, in slow motion.

i climb trees of twisted metal.  i eat raw fish with broken glass.