I spiral upward, round
and round such angled steps.
I grow dizzy, live on less
oxygen up high where few go,
where wax faces burn to bone.
My bare feet blister
against sun-heated iron
steps, rusted from rain,
from too few feet rapping,
tapping their metallic tattoo.
One orange-vested hunter below
searches for signs: bent twigs,
a white-tail flash, pheasants,
even a rabbit. Something, anything
out of season, worth the risk.
One family pounds in stakes
strong enough to moor canvas to ground.
They lose themselves on unmarked trails,
argue over the way back, wondering if
their green tent houses brown bears.
I scan air for smoke, for fire
during this drought month when I run
from air-conditioned life, yearn for heat.
I am far above ground, an aerialist who swings
from earth to air. I can just let go and burn.
Carol Carpenter's stories and poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Yankee, America, Barnwood, Indiana Review, Quarterly West, Carolina Quarterly, Byline, Confrontation, and Papier-Mache Press's anthology, Generation to Generation. She received the Richard Eberhart Prize for Poetry and was a finalist in the Nelson Algren Awards. Formerly a college writing instructor and journalist, she now works for a communications and training firm.
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