It is a rock-scramble crawl.
Bitten pen in my teeth.
They say it's easier if you're small,
tearing at roots till they're ragged as curtain pulls.
I slide back when I hear men
rearing motorboats out on the lumpy bay,
their engines revving out of the water, backing up,
throwing out all that man spray.
I have tried obeying and not obeying laws
and neither has taught me how to climb.
Neither and both are guidelines.
Neither and both will ever fit.
I push words around; the clouds
won't remember it.
Their shadow spreads over other cliffs
and I see someone else on a climb.
She makes it look easy, far away.
Does she claw as I claw? Is this even worthwhile
to do? It's always more full of doubt
and harder
when the climber is you.
I wouldn't mind letting go
of this hold
and standing up to see
the islands on the other side
where other women tuck and fold.
But I can only go so fast. In fact,
I'm very slow. I want things to last
longer than they do, and other slower ones
to be over soon.
I wanted a life beside him,
he handed me my coat.
Somewhere is a man who doesn't
miss me and somewhere rain
and somewhere a change waiting to sprain my life
into relief.
My hands fumble.
Clumps break into dust.
Look at the puffs of brown sailing off
like cannon shot, spreading like rust
in the sky.
The earth tilts up, pressing its belly to me.
I rub its dirty kisses from my mouth,
then kiss it again firmly.
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