poem
Volume 33, Number 4

The Chasm 

Your fears and my fears face off on opposite sides of a chasm as deep as the Grand Canyon but not nearly as wide. There used to be a land bridge between us but that crumbled years ago under the weight of our fearsome battles so now they can only roar at each other. Your fears have two fingers on each stubby forearm; mine have three. Your fears are red; mine, yellow. Really they lived millions of years apart but that doesn’t matter. As we stomp our feet rocks slide down the canyon walls. This is how the chasm widens. 


—Ian Willey