Uphill

When I pass the barren cornfield newly plowed
where bell bottomed butternut squash rest sideways
scattered like corpses on a battlefield, 
I pump and steer and pump some more
ignoring my wobbly knees,
panting lungs,
and fingertips gone numb
from a too tight grip on the handlebars.

Nowadays it takes mostly nerve,
faith in equilibrium,
and confidence that the truck so near
I can feel the breath of his engine 
will brake when I steer clear 
of potholes, broken glass
and lumps of roadkill 
fragrant and swarming with flies,
smeared across both lanes of  
the country road.

But it wasn’t always like this.

When the training wheels came off
and I mastered backwards footbrakes
the world pulsed with possibility.
I could ride alone to the schoolyard
where packs of big kids smoked cigarettes
and threw rocks at rumbling trolley cars 
and educate myself on how to be cool.

Or I could ride by myself to the square
park my bike in the metal rack
and wander the aisles of the pharmacy 
before stopping in at Bob’s for a roll of Lifesavers
to stash in my pocket for safe keeping 
during the pedal home.

Though it’s never safe to look back
to check that the deep whistle trailing behind
is only the wind,
at this late hour,
I steady my eye on rolling terrain ahead
comforted still
in knowing how to downshift 
for that last climb home.

INKWELL JOURNAL, Spring 2022, No 37