by Linda Wojtowick
On the mountain, fingers bled. That’s where you went,
if your downtown city water ran clean. He was there.
On most weekend days. In a boat on the lake.
His shoulders pulled forward so far forward they almost touched.
This despite his attempts at elongation, at grace.
He tried to map the postal road, to sing and die like kings.
But only in the late wined hours, when he was to himself the most kind,
did he think of his straining elbows as wings on his chest.
Eventually he went back. At the end of meals.
To the gray buildings of his home. By the trash nests.
The chopsticks and white grass.
Linda Wojtowick is a Pushcart Prize bridesmaid. She lives in an increasingly more crowded and expensive Portland, Oregon, where she can easily indulge her cinematic obsessions without restraint. Upcoming projects are: rest, and searching for things. Oh, so many things.