2006 Poem

by David Radavich

The mountains hovered as scene-
props over us, firs falling

into our chain-sawed
hands like brothers after-bars

and sun bit our skin
day after day

with its glorious tooth.

I remember driving so many gears
down a corkscrewed road

that threatened to turn
every timber into

the white-capped soup
so far below the rocky shoulder.
Those were days
that sank into the river

sweaty and
naked with fatigue.
Every noon
ate our arms into

ghosts
of sawdust.
Now that peaks have worn
into photographs

and grey hair
has become a weapon,

I advance my face into the blue
skies of memory, how time lived tight

with us in a cabin
of innocence: Why should

anyone care
that a young rifle

fired at tin-cans lined across
dry logs as if the years

could be knocked
down–bang, bang, bang.

David Radavich