The Skier

By Joshua Doležal

She reveled in the bumps on the runs, the burn of snow
against her wrists. Each time I saw her fall, cheeks
glowing in the wind, she lifted the whitewashed cap from her eyes,
grinning at the spectacle of scattered skis and poles
as I crisscrossed the hill, gathering the gear.
Once I reached her, she would steady herself on my shoulder
to fit her boot to the binding, stamping her heel
into the lock. Soon, she’d drop into a corridor
flanked by jagged rocks, bobbing among the moguls, her hair
flickering against the black ice.
The bruised cheeks were nothing new, she said when she called,
but this time her man had dealt the blow.
Then she laughed, as if wiping snow from her face—
the first time I could not recover what she had lost,
weave my way to her side, and return it all.

Published April 2009