A Moment in the Woods
sarah peecher

Offstage at rehearsal, you told me a secret. 

You had climbed the fire escape to the roof, 

wanted me to try it. For once, I thought seriously 

about doing something that could get me in trouble –

 

I scaled the ladder in my mind, and started to see 

how small it all was: the playground where,

in elementary school, you rushed past swinging 

classmates in a game dubbed Angry Bus Driver,

sometimes took the slam of feet to the shoulder,

toppled over. The dirt field edged with grass 

where I pretended to converse with a whole 

crash of rhinos. 

 

We perched our tender bones atop our 

one and only high school, no longer encased

in its cement block walls. The smell of 

fresh-cut lawns floated through my hair. 

 

I was terrified of falling. I was thrilled to be there

with you.

 

The shape of that desire, to simply sit on the edge

beside you, only grew more real as you sang that song,

the one where a man just wants a reprieve. To shut the door 

on false hope. And I sang: How do you know who you are 

till you know what you want?