“Peekamoose Mountain”
by Charles Bowe 

The first time we climbed it, I’d left my boots
outside the night before. I put them on,
and my feet were cold. Drank tea from
a thermos in the car, and they were still cold.
We studied the map at the trailhead for
almost five minutes, and they were still cold.
We talked for a long time about how many
layers we would wear, thinking it could
be warm by afternoon, contemplating
which jacket could be stuffed in the backpack.
Each point we made reflected something raw
about us both, beliefs that sustain
us, or flaws that will kill us some day. 

They say a good playwright knows when to let
his heroes breathe, and do some things completely
out of character for them,
but Peekamoose is no Tennessee Williams.
Everything she has to say about
you is typical of you. Every time
we go back and climb her we try a different
trail up, but we are still us. We smile
about her surprising ascents and long
reprieves. compliant with her elegance.
You rub your ankles in the same places
on the way home. I sit on the steps to
untie my boots and leave them outside
just this one more time.