The Long Trail up Vermont was all
Tree roots and mud. I had a raincoat,
A monk’s cowl made from plastic
The color of bricks. It covered
Everything, my backpack, legs,
Hair soaked with sweat, windblown
Rain. I was carrying too much weight.
The cans of tuna went first, the eggs
In their blue carton. Pasta and graham
Crackers didn’t weigh much. At night,
I used my flashlight for reading,
The Mayor of Casterbridge and
The Duino Elegies, both chosen
Almost at random—in the morning,
Oatmeal, instant coffee mixed with
Powdered milk and sugar. The shelters
Smelled of mice droppings and woodsmoke.
When I walked, I just looked at the ground,
Where to put my right boot, my left. I
Didn’t think about the apartment in
Cambridge, those fights that I never
Remembered afterwards, the uncertainty
About who I wanted to be, the shame that
Nothing mattered enough to claim me.
Outside of Bennington, there were stone
Steps leading down a mountain, one
Of those green hills ridging their way
Toward Canada. I hitchhiked into town
For dinner and a shower, then took out
All the stuff I’d brought along, extra
Clothes, camping gear, parmesan cheese—
Threw away whatever I didn’t need.
Published in ONE ART: a journal of poetry, June 14, 2026.
