Christine Klocek-Lim

Sometimes you don't die

—Mt. Tammany, NJ - March 1992

Before climate change, snow stuck

around on the mountains.

Before the plague

the forest was empty—

no cell phones, no selfies,

no influencers shilling for clicks.

And we were too young to know how poor

we really were, so the lack of boots

and gloves didn't signify.

We went into the wilderness

on a whim.

Halfway up the mountain the trail vanished

and the sky fell into a squall of blinding cold light:

snow falling thick as an angel's wings

and probably twice as deadly,

not that we realized it.

We barely found the cliff in time

to keep away from the spectacular edge.

We barely found the far side trail—

it was more like hope

than actual blazes marking the way down.

I've a blurry memory of clumsy fingers

and cold feet. A buzzing headache.

Your determination to keep

at it...no idea why.

Sleep wasn't the worst thing

that could happen.

But the frozen stream's icefall

was what nearly got me in the end.

I couldn't see the way down

and didn't much care

anyway.

You pulled me over and down it crying

and I'm not ashamed now to think about how near

we came to death that day. Sometimes you learn.

Sometimes you die.

The unlucky do both at the same time.

Christine Klocek-Lim is editor of Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY and a prize-winning Pennsylvania poet. Her poetry collection Dark Matter uses astronomy as a theme for human relationships. Her latest chapbook, Nōmenclātūra, explores the reality and surreality of the human condition. Her poems and essays have appeared in Nimrod, Nautilus—Cosmos, 3 Quarks Daily, The Comstock Review, and elsewhere.