We could form a music group
or craft empty-glass metaphors,
build analogies out of playing cards,
understand the narrative we cannot exit.

We could throw rocks into the ocean
and question the nature of our liquid planet.

We could lose ourselves in panic
or slay the monsters in the labyrinth,
we could say yes to the high road
and regret the strength that carries us,

Or, windblown wishes of the past, we could say
nothing at all, do nothing but hold hands.

By Heidi Turner