<- Back to main page

The Wingtip

by Madelyn Camrud


                 Truthfully, there are no roses in any of this.

Not in the rowing,    the awful rowing    like a wind squall.


                                            He went out like a light.


But there were days,   occasional,      grace-necked as swans   paddling

                         on the coulee,        gracious as     stories told,   


tongues   unlaced.    Looking back, I see them watching  

                          for land         any day    just ahead.


             He went out,     left foot left,       closet    corner,        


other half   riddled       with survivor doubt,     stayed,   like an  old shoe,     

                            forgotten        in the dust of    its keeping.   


         Skin like leather       we all wear          in time.      Shoe    

                         without a foot,        left       in a corner