Approaching Middle Age
Last night the new moon broke open across my shoulders.
Then dawn came through the trees
in pinpoints of varying sizes
like starlight glowing among the leaves.
All week I woke in the darkness but kept my eyes closed,
hoping it was only temporary, but
I could not sleep –
a star was winking at me
from some place colder and farther away
than I will ever be.
The Climber
after the film, Free Solo
For days afterward
weeks – a year
for nights afterward
and sometimes still
I wake to see his body
attached to the cliff, alive
with how easy death could be.
Defiant about the face,
as if wind were a myth, the climber
is what every mother fears
for the child who crawled from her
body and latched onto the
world like some kind of marsupial
or a frog with suction cups
for fingers. Is the fear of
someone else’s death always
about our own mortality?
In the dark, I stay awake
and watch as, periodically, he
dusts his palms with fresh
white powder
and goes higher.