Before the Spill

The world tilts forward

not sudden, but steady,

like a glass filled too close to the rim,

like a road narrowing under the weight of its own warning.

We have been here before,

ink pressed into parchment:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident…”

yet some truths were bound in chains,

others erased with musket fire and ink blotted clean.

The Bill of Rights,

a hand-me-down from the Magna Carta, 1512,

promised liberty, speech, assembly,

but always with a quiet clause

liberty for some, silence for others.

Settlers who fled kings

also fled neighbors,

splitting themselves by race and creed,

building fences taller than their churches,

turning worship into walls.

Now the road curves again,

sharp enough that even the asphalt seems to brace.

Some drive it fast,

hands on horns, eyes narrowed,

clutching skin and scripture like weapons.

Others slow,

reciting the Constitution under their breath

as if the words alone could stop the tilt

“life, liberty,

and the pursuit of happiness…”

But hatred is heavy…

heavier than freedom,

heavier than the glass we balance on the edge.

Once it spills,

there will be nothing left to drink,

no water for any of us.

We hover at that instant,

the brake trembling beneath the foot.

The curve is already written.

The tilt is already here.

And forward is the only way it goes.