colin sent this revision of an old poem
i find it too grim, and very un-colin-like
Two hundred meters from the summit, on a knife-edge ridge,
the wind whirls around a rocky outcropping
catching him off-guard, shakes his balance—arms windmilling,
a mitt flies into the cold nothingness.
He jams his ice-axe into the crusted snow, regroups.
He is on lead, cutting steps—the summit,
yet two hours, maybe more, away.
Cut, step, deep breath, another—cut, step, deep breath, another.
On the summit he takes off his remaining mitt,
smacks his hands together, hoping
to warm the frozen hand before it is too late.
It is too late. His hand shatters—pieces of flesh and bone
and gristle and tendon explode, fall into the void.
He hears the sound of one hand clapping.
Poetry by jim
Read 37 times
Written on 2021-08-02 at 04:39
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)