The Pompoms of St. Moritz - Gwynn O'Gara

[Larry Robinson]

The Pompoms of St. Moritz

One of our dogs ate the piles I swept,
another loved popcorn so much
I left the lid off so fluffy kernels 
flew to her rummage on the floor.

I don’t ski. 
My trick knee steers me off rocky slopes 
to sprung floors, yoga mats and tatami. 
I love sparkle and quiet,
qualities of snow,
the blurry edges of dream.

Today I hooked a rubber band to 
a necklace so the chrysocolla beads, 
colors of the river she swam daily, 
hang over my heart and I feel my friend. 
I’m a better woman with her close.

Penelope—her name means thread—and I 
cross the snow glittering in the dark, 
laughing so hard the pompoms on our hats 
explode and the strands scatter to ice and stars.

I go a long way to feel the dead.
I do without, or see it fresh. Harder
alone. When someone tromps through the blizzard 
with a stretcher, I stop begging childhood Jesus, 
clasp my arms around their neck—her neck—
and pin my heart to theirs.

	- Gwynn O'Gara