MARY BUCHINGER
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
Mary Buchinger is the author of three collections of poetry: e i n f ü h l u n g/in feeling (2018), Aerialist (2015) and Roomful of Sparrows (2008). She is President of the New England Poetry Club and Professor of English and communication studies at MCPHS University in Boston. Her work has appeared in AGNI, Diagram, Gargoyle, Nimrod, PANK, Salamander, Slice Magazine, The Massachusetts Review, and elsewhere; her website is www.MaryBuchinger.com.