Woman in a Snowsuit Pretending to Ski

It is one of those sultry July days

when the sky unzips, her water breaks,

and the streets steam like clams in a hot pot.

In the glare of freshly bathed sun,

my neighbors play half-naked 

in their sprinklers and the mail carrier

wears a personal fan on the brim 

of her official USPS hat. I leave my house

in full winter gear, my goggles fogged

in the day’s humidity. The park is near,

just a few glides away, and I propel

myself down the grassy slope, 

ski pole clenched in each gloved fist. 

Joggers and picnickers stare and 

snicker, but I pull my red knit 

beanie over my ears, sensing nothing

but mountain, where the snow shimmers

and the air is so brisk and bracing 

it hurts to breathe. I race down the first

hill carving massive turns, rooster tail 

pluming in my wake. Gravity’s got nothing

on me— no weight of opinion to slow

the slalom, no drag on my treasured time.

I rip through moguls like I’m whitewater

rafting, hesitation banished to a far away

island, defiance worn like fuck-me pumps.

I head to the backcountry, to mile-long runs 

weaving between pines, freeriding

through fresh powder. I stop, take a sip 

from the flask, close my eyes, catch my breath.

It’s winter if I say it is.

Published in Shooter Literary Magazine, Summer 2021