Dry Hill – new poetry book – INTRO

Don’t read these words like you actually know me. No. Pretend I’m a stranger. Make believe these are pages you found bound together on the street. Please. I am lowkey begging you. Give me that grace. I’m asking for it, even though I know it can’t be given. An impossibility. Grace just is. By no work or deed of your own. The hated are loved. The weight of full hearts breaks others.

I just want to write my way from beginning to end, birth to death. Things I can own and those stubbed toes and stumbled steps I might in the long run rather omit. I am going to write it down. For myself. For you. Though I recognize you didn’t ask me to do it. For my son. For Ashley. For the kids two thousand years from now, for when they fight through the fray. When they ask, I don’t need to articulate what. Just, when they ask.

Is why I write.

 

 

Down Hills High Speed

This peculiar work.
This lowest legal wage.
Paid to help people play.
In the snow.
Tempting gravity.
Nowhere to go.
But down hills high speed.
Not for me.

Though I will gladly take pay to keep it an open albeit precarious possibility for them.
Others.
Buried in layered flannel and rainbow goggles.
I like to imagine behind them they see the world
like a horsefly gushing by trees bristled hairs in loose whipping tails.
Ears twitch and break brittle as ice.
Hit the landing just right.
Broken wings and six shattered legs lie crumpled in a pile.
Rise from the white ashes.
Laughing.
Clearly this whole thing is no more than a peculiarity.
It’s just. They keep on insisting on calling it work.

Surprised Still

Perched like an eagle on top of a ski hill.
Who would not have thought.
Eight hundred miles of mountains.
Would lead to here.

This dry little white one.
No more than a hill. Still.

Paid minimum wage to watch kids climb like boomerangs
come twirling throwing snow back to be whipped again.
Scarves hiding grins.
Nobody wins.
Nobody really has a gender.
Or an agenda.
Or anything better to do. Clearly.
Just surprised still at gravity.
Bolting fiberglass boards to boots.

Amused. When mountains for two months
leads to a mountain for two months.

As if it ever could have happened.
Any other way.
And still been mine.