Saturday, April 4, 2015

Throwing Javelin

Between the throw and the retrieve, there’s counting paces, reviewing form, wondering if, at my age, I shouldn’t take up swimming. There’s remembering my first trip to the hole at Yellow Bottom where I waded over slippery rocks in old sneakers too worn-out for anything else and the sweet smell there of somebody smoking what nobody was supposed to be smoking and secretly hoping to be offered some for the very first time. There’s wagging my head at the recollection of jumping from the 20-foot boulder just far enough out to hit the middle of the blue part. There’s trying to figure out why I’m still alive and Danielle, my premature sister who had our father’s name before I did and was always so much more to my mother than a tiny gray hand being whisked away for emergency care, is not. There’s thinking about my father and asking myself whether or not I would have abandoned my sons instead of digging-in deep when things went south if he had not abandoned his. Then there’s bending over, picking up the stick, and telling myself I think I know.

Toe Good Poetry - April 2015

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