Like any good father, I pull my son from
the river, drag him by his arms up
the embankment, his Lilliputian shoes
cutting tracks through mud that rapids
rush to erase. Because the city beyond
these mountains is no longer as we
envisioned it. Because the derailed train
is now a skein of lichen on a slick boulder
that was my gut when we heard
he wasn’t okay, and I couldn’t say a word.
I sit beside him as he coughs up water. I ask
who I am but get no reply—instead overhead
hawks are heard but unseen and he
remains so still he could be anyone’s son,
found the way cairns steer us up
the face as early summer mornings
preheat to a promise the mountain
isn’t sure it can fulfill.
KG Newman is a sports writer for The Denver Post. His first two poetry collections, While Dreaming of Diamonds in Wintertime and Selfish Never Get Their Own, are available on Amazon. He is on Twitter @KyleNewmanDP.