Page 43 of Glass (Crank 2)

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angular mountain brings back

memories of stepping off cornices

and hanging, midair, for a scant

second before dropping down

long, deep black-diamond runs.

I can almost feel the sizzle

of adrenaline, pumping

from the back of my skull, zooming

down my spine and into my legs,

making them reach

for even more speed.

Turn. Turn. Don’t fight gravity.

Suck into its jet stream.

Once in a while I’d make a mistake,

catch an edge. Or a mogul.

Most times, I corrected

before taking a tumble.

Once or twice, I wasn’t so lucky,

dumping headlong down the hill,

sliding out of control

until the landscape leveled.

And that made the adrenaline

pump even faster.

Which reminds me.

I have not had an adrenaline

rush since I took my little detour,

one of nature’s irresistible highs, denied

by brain chemistry gone awry,

at the claws of the monster.

I might not know the cause

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