Thinking (Months Later or Even Before) of James Brady On His Death (Unfinished Poem)
We ski when there’s no snow
in most of the valley, back at the far edges, and hear
after we start–having walked our skis in through mud
and rock–shouts
echoed,
and I yell ‘hello,’ and you say
not to call them over to us and my spine fills
with cold iron as if it were itself a wielded barrel
and I wonder what we might do if someone
were to find us, and wish I hadn’t
called,
and what cover is there, leafless,
and ski faster though the pine-needled snow sticks
and catches, and later, after climbing to the shaded tips
of freeze where we’re able to slip and glide and forget everything but the sun
just coming out, silvering brown, we hear,
near the road, gun shots and
again gain’gain’gain, and
we stop and I tell you I’d throw you down
and lay on top of you, and you chuckle slightly,
as if
in echo,
and I wonder why
we have to even think about such things
in this country–
**************************
The wonderful and ever creative Izy Gruye has a prompt on With Real Toads requesting unfinished poems. I consider almost all the poems I post drafts, but here’s one I did not post for some reason–did not feel quite right–maybe the end, maybe too long in the middle–my husband did not like it much perhaps because he’d never let me throw him down to shield him from gunshot–
Thinking especially of James Brady’s death in posting now for this prompt.
I am sorry to be so absent–am hoping to get a little more time soon.
ManicDDaily 
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