Various and Sundry Poetry


Two days into our trip to Grand Lake,

my uncle said he wanted to get above the treeline.

I was still breathing hard at 8,500 feet, spending

mornings down at the dock, toes squealing at the water.

It was too cold to swim, so I read a book

on the beauty of grief and tried pretending

I was finished with all of it, heart-wound sewn and sealed

like new. But there are some things you can’t will

from cell memory: a baby’s neck,

your father’s cologne, the ridges of a basketball

dimpling your palm, the blue

chlorine of the pool you almost drowned in.

Inside my body, there was a wreck

of longing and countless places needing healing.

The climb begins where it begins.

But there is plenty of air.

There is plenty of time.