On Seeing Old Skis in the Garage
Leslie Williams
So many slopes they touched, and once leaned outside while I tromped into the parlor of an alpine monastery, clattering boots, my bluster welcomed to dine silently with the brothers who had also vowed to get to the powder of what is daily fused with life: to glide, to carve, to schuss and float with what the spirit clamors for — even though my body’s sluggish, slow, it remembers mountains, glory in the snowfell hill, its bluebell kindred skills — a rough jouissance is what I brought, in all my choices good and not so good, the might-have-beens and new offerings from the range I’m entering, something milder — I’d still strive for the milk of kindness, hold out my simmering so the fat might rise like broken proteins to the top, to be skimmed off.
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