against her wrists. Each time I saw her fall, cheeks

glowing in the wind, she lifted the whitewashed cap from her eyes,

grinning at the spectacle of scattered skis and poles

as I crisscrossed the hill, gathering the gear.

Once I reached her, she would steady herself on my shoulder

to fit her boot to the binding, stamping her heel

into the lock. Soon, she’d drop into a corridor

flanked by jagged rocks, bobbing among the moguls, her hair

flickering against the black ice.

The bruised cheeks were nothing new, she said when she called,

but this time her man had dealt the blow.

Then she laughed, as if wiping snow from her face —

the first time I could not recover what she had lost,

weave my way to her side, and return it all.

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