Note: this poem is published in Volume 20 of The Zine. Photo by the author.
we take climbing as medicine:
you insist,
but your pill bottles
shrink
four…
three…
two
and you’re gone
lost as the gear we
bailed on during
solemn retreat
after groveling,
questing
up & up & up
until our callused hands
reached directly into the
Zion sky
grasping desperately
and we were above it
you, so goddamn high,
that you couldn’t
discern the atmosphere
from your breath—
rhythmic
pulsing through charred lungs
adorned with red dirt
veins in
three dimensions on
Popeye forearms
veiled by your
tattered sleeves,
circulating
your chemicals—
the compounds
to heal
to ease
to forget
to erase
the women
losses
falls,
the dreams that
crumbled like chalk
steadily draining you
as sun & moon danced
eternal
and the routes droned on
by headlamp
venturing
into the darkness.
heavy.
and sleep eludes
because, shit—
where did
your ’scripts go?
You took Ambien while
I just had ambient light,
golden,
exploding over
Little Cottonwood,
like rage had
howled across the
barren night of
Santa Clara when
you pressed the
blade to your throat
and
I’ll
fucking
do
it
—not kidding—
escaped from your
tortured lips…
my panic
ohgod ohgod ohgod
pleading:
my voice the
mildest quake,
yours bursting with
more force than
tectonics, rising past
the La Sals
where you were far
above yourself
peering down
in disbelief,
incredulous
—monstrous
this is not you,
this isn’t happening
but it is inside you,
and the moment hung.
if milligrams
of magic capsules
fail you—
if I lunge
for the knife
seconds too late—
if your rescue
is deemed
impossible—
will climbing be
our medicine
or your
affliction,
our addiction or
my refuge…
or shall we
simply climb just
one more pitch, dear?
This poem was published in Volume 20 of The Climbing Zine.
Fallon Rowe is the author of the new book: Pay No Mind, now available.
