Wednesday, November 5, 2014


Belly flop down the white tundra of Brooklyn,
the caked snow that scared me more than the ocean.
Leave me be for a moment, let me remember.
I seem to picture a rock-solid hill
on which, with frozen fingers, I sledded down
helter-skelter till my numbness made 
me retreat before others. And so now: 
still not knowing the stout way of withdrawing, 
not wishing to be chided by friends, 
deemed a weakling, 'tis mom wants me for dinner,
and lift up my sled and leave. Today, with no
mom to excuse me, I think hard on my body—
peacefully toward death rather than face

the same frightening hill over and over. 

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