THE WEIGHT OF WHAT CAN FALL

 

We’ve passed the point where digging my car

out by hand is an option. Even if all this ache

 

went away, I’d need a blade, a motor, in which case

standing atop what city plows left in their wake

 

I wouldn’t be fighting storm anymore—berms,

drifts, blizzard of ruts. I’d be making everything

 

personal—childhood, adolescence, and now advancing

age in the kingdom of winter, rage at the weight

 

of what can fall on us. So much more seems broken

when I’m stranded. Humbled in moonlight, the heavy

 

dark of 1 a.m., I floundered because of nonsense

for reasoning. Who but the desperate would argue

 

in the dark, banging a trowel into layers of ice, he was

acting independently of cause? Those who saw me

 

stabbing at the ground must have cringed at how much

I looked like them. Tell them I’ve changed. Tell them,

 

now, I’m a willow in wind, bending to gales of stress

and aggression, wishing I could take back the image

 

of me in moonlight, punishing ice that wouldn’t

have given, no matter how long I insisted it should.

 

 

Scott Davidson has had poems in Southwest Review, Bright Bones: Contemporary Montana Writing, trampset, Terrain.org, and the Permanent Press anthology Crossing the River: Poets of the Western United States.

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