I Dare You
It started on the slopes at the crest
of the black diamond hill. My empty
stomach rumbled, I heard the skiers
hit the ice and scrape their edges,
carving into hard-packed snow,
but I could not move and leap
off that peak to schuss downhill,
so I cross-countried to the next lift,
stabbing my poles with each push.
It returned in Maine, on the rocks
of a sunny inlet. I could not jump
into the fifty-degree waves
from the boulder that protruded near
the beach. A loon cooed from the shore,
mocking me, its mate echoing the call.
And then you dared me to leap,
and I leapt, you dared me to jump,
and I jumped, you dared me to let
go, and I let go, but you did not.
Kim King © 2015