Pitching Horseshoes

by Claudia Emerson, posted on September 20, 2006 — 1 comment, filed under Issue Three, Poetry, Anthologized

Some of your buddies might come around

for a couple of beers and a game,

but most evenings, you pitched horseshoes

alone. I washed up the dishes

or watered the garden to the thudding

sounds of the horseshoes in the pit,

or the practiced ring of metal

against metal, after the silent

arc–end over end. That last

summer, you played a seamless, unscored

game against yourself. Or night

falling. Or coming in the house.

You were good at it. From the porch

I watched you become shadowless

then featureless, until I knew

you couldn’t see either, and still

the dusk rang out, your aim that easy;

between the iron stakes you had driven

into the hard earth yourself, you paced

back and forth as if there were a decision

to make, and you were the one to make it.

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