‘One’ 

 

The keen knife;

held only

by the handle,

Or cut 

by merciless metal. 

 

One more, Just one. 

 

It’s always just one, 

no? 

 

A hair-thin difference; 

the whistle of wind, 

tipping me off the edge- 

snickering as I fall: 

down down down. 

 

I thought, ‘how?’ 

as I laid there, 

Even the dust laughed;

fingers pointing, spittle flying;

as I fell upon them. 

 

I looked down at my paper. 

 

Ink blurred into branches.

With every blink

black spreads from 

just one

drop. 

 

Chance or luck-

It wasn’t enough. 

I played a ‘maybe’

(Just once)

and lost. 

 

Just.

 

One. 

 

Mark. 

 

Because I flew so close, 

yet fell so far.

Writer – Stephanie Lin
Editor – Eva McNulty
Artist –Maryam Nawaz

–August 2024–