Route 83

That day in February
skiing cross-country
Suicide Bowl  all morning  early
afternoon in the glorious geography of risk
sun shattered with pines  thick
by the trail and I barely twenty  followed
my teacher and all the others  learning
to lay down tracks  snow-gold
light turned winter red  I bled
through cramps and blood
first of the day’s surprises
back to the dorm  I thought
half an hour drive  shower and change—

then  I turned left at the blinking
yellow  and the skis flew past my head
windows diamonded  Fiesta back seat
snug-up against my gearshift  but I
got out.  And the old man said
You’d better call
  pointing
to the gas station on the corner

so I did  and he was gone  cops
shook their heads
We’re taking you
to the hospital
  But I’m fine  I said
I just need to shower  and they said
You don’t even know what hurts
car totaled  and I felt such shame
cramps and blood  Later

they find pieces of my car in the cracked grill
of the old man’s pickup truck parked
in front of Toivo’s Bar  but I was
the college student out-of-towner
and he the town drunk
Sally’s father
they said  Then a hearty laughing
orthopedic surgeon told me my neck
would be a problem the rest of my life
but my boyfriend of a month nursed me
carried plates of pork chops and eggs up
to me in his squeaky-spring bed
and how to make love in a brace
was my earliest and first  the next year we
married  thirty-some years ago  and I still
don’t  wonder what  if