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,, and the Permanent Press anthology Crossing the River: Poets of the Western United States.

Table of Contents | Next Page