Who Knew Then by Wayne Allen LeVine

Who knew then?
while I danced
edges of four story
rooftops, or when

I ate my lunch out
on the ledge of the
30th floor of a
downtown Chicago

skyscraper, or when
I hung by one hand,
from the branch of a

tree, growing out
of the side of the
southern rim of the

Grand Canyon . . .
staring down at a
2000 foot drop onto
ancient layers of
multi-colored rock,

while my brother
stood in terror,
pleading with me to
climb back – where

it’s safe, behind the fence.
Who knew then,
that of the two son’s
born of different mothers . . .
he was the one closer to the edge the entire time.