Down Hill Fast

THERE'S ALWAYS A MOMENT


When A said "come on, we're both
good-looking people" and I started
at his ugliness - pigeon-chested, culpable,
a jigsaw heap of bones and bargain lager;

when B pronounced "it's LAZY. Councils
ought to take the notice down
AS SOON AS THE EVENT IS OVER" - military,
disappointed by the blurriness of rainbows;

or when C shouted, toe-to-toe
"if it is like this now, how will we live together?"
so that I understood what he had not
and headed for the car;

when D, half-stoned and speaking of
the night he burned a car out with his friend
for the insurance, said "you're sheltered, honey.
Everybody lives like this,"

or when E told another slow-burn joke
explaining it as if to toddlers,
turned another phrase in Latin,
said "Oh, you state-school girls!"

or when you said "she's pregnant"
and tried to make of me a little boat
to bear you through your own tsunami,
carry you across your coral reef of guilt:

each time, each circumstance a ski-lift
that delivers me again to stand
unbalanced at the hilltop, scanning
all the great slant swathes of white

to choose a route - until I push off,
lean into my own weight, building speed
to take each corner in a knife-smooth arc;
belting downhill for the sweet dark pines, and spring.