After Denise Duhamel

Along the Seine, the Rhine, the East River. Through shadows of sandy canyons. Along the
precipitous edges of glacial cirques. In tree-lined streets. In my dreams, I try, but statue
as the men tiptoe through the yard of my childhood home. Around the lake by my house,
probably one thousand times. Up a ski hill, down an incline flanked by shivering alpine daisies.
From a pitbull whose owner thought it was funny to let him go and watch him chase me. On my
toes, my ballet teachers screaming легче! Легче! Lighter! lighter! Up a stairwell, while blood
from one of the babies that would never be soaked my pants. From a group of girls—two on foot
and two by car—when my spring walk meandered the wrong street. Up the escalator
of the Metro in Dupont Circle over and over burning off ten Saltines I ate earlier that day. Into
the ocean, with urgency. To catch a bus, to catch a plane, to catch a toddler testing the limits
of control. Around the perimeter where a wall once stood protecting the city from invasion.
On a treadmill because the drivers, or the men, or the air could not be trusted. Through Rocky
Mountain National Park, an aluminum whistle my only protection.