Vertigo
for Joe
At Little Round Top, that trip to Gettysburg,
you leapt boulders like stones in a garden.
Below, I stood watch, held my phone, ready
to call medics. You bounced, shouted, waved.
You showed off the farm where you kept horses.
Three massive creatures strode across the grass
to nuzzle, like me, your fair beard: first, two roans,
then the white. You fed them chunks of apple.
Those Sunday mornings when I slipped
away from home to join you in your bed:
“Warren’s always first,” I told you. “Of course,”
you said, and cupped my face with your palm.
I brought you to my husband. He approved.
We went to Wheaton, the place they fire glass.
You told your stories. Warren told his. Dizzy
from heat, I studied Warren’s face, then yours.
You drove us through tall hills to Eagle Mount.
I rode white-knuckled the whole way. You dashed
onto flat, wide rocks. Warren shrugged, followed.
I crept out on hands and knees to join you both.
You two chatted. You sat cross-legged. Warren
dangled legs off a ledge. High above our perch,
bald eagles drifted. Below them, falcons darted,
seeking careless prey. I lay flat on my back,
pretended the world beneath me wouldn’t turn.
It didn’t work. I still feel those brief days whirl.
© David Milley
David Milley
The Loch Raven Review 