|
CLAUDIA EMERSON
Pitching Horseshoes
Some of your buddies might
come around
for
a couple of beers and a game,
but
most evenings, you pitched horseshoes
alone. I washed up the dishes
or
watered the garden to the thudding
sound
of the horseshoe in the pit,
or the practiced ring of metal
against
metal, after the silent
arc—end
over end. That last
summer you played a seamless, unscored
game
against yourself, or night
falling,
or coming in the house.
You were good at it. From the porch
I
watched you become shadowless,
then
featureless, until I knew
you couldn't see either, and still
the
dusk rang out, your aim that easy;
between
the iron stakes you had driven
into the hard earth yourself, you paced
back
and forth as if there were a decision
to
make, and you were the one to make it. 
return to top
|
