<\/p>\n
Saying the Necessary<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
I read of a Montana man
\nwhose pickup
\nstalled in the mountains.
\nCross-country skiers
\nfound him next spring,
\ntheir skis rasping
\non the top of his cab
\njust showing through the snow.
\nHis engine dead, no map,
\nhe’d apparently decided
\nto wait for help.
\nHis diary calmly records
\nhis life of being lost.
\nHe describes the passing days,
\nhow he rationed his crackers,
\nan Almond Joy,
\nbuilt a few small fires at night,
\nate his emergency candles,
\nice from a pond,
\na pine’s green lace of moss.
\nHe hoarded every spark
\nfrom his battery.
\nThere’s evidence he wandered
\nup a nearby ridge.
\nHe might have noticed a marmot,
\ngold and relaxed on a rock,
\nor spotted mountain goats
\nwedged high in grey basalt.
\nFrom a pinnacle of broken
\nlichen-colored scree
\nhe watched the world bend away blue,
\nrivered with trees.
\nHe might have heard
\nthe whine of a plane
\nin the next valley,
\nlooking, looking.<\/p>\n
Then the cold came. When the blizzard buried him, He must have known <\/p>\n Ed Harkness <\/a>is the author of several poetry chapbooks, including Fiddle Wrapped in a Gunny Sack<\/em> (Dooryard Press, 1984), Watercolor Painting of a Bamboo Rake<\/em> (Brooding Heron Press, 1994), and most recently Syringa in Twilight<\/em> (Red Wing Press, 2010). Pleasure Boat Studio<\/a> has published his two full-length poetry collections, Saying the Necessary\u00a0<\/a><\/em>(2000), and Beautiful Passing Lives<\/em>,<\/a> (2010). His poems can be found in print journals including Fine Madness, Great River Review, The Humanist, Midwest Quarterly, Portland Review, Seattle Review<\/em> and others. His work has also appeared in several pioneering online literary journals, including Mudlark<\/em>,<\/a>\u00a0Switched-on Gutenberg<\/em>, <\/a>and Salt River Review<\/em><\/a>.\u00a0 Harkness\u2019 poem, \u201cKaylyn, Hermiston Elementary,\u201d <\/a>was featured on the Writer\u2019s Almanac<\/em> radio program. He lives with his wife, Linda, and teaches writing at Shoreline Community College.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Saying the Necessary I read of a Montana man whose pickup stalled in the mountains. Cross-country skiers found him next spring, their skis rasping on the top of his cab just showing through the snow. His engine dead, … Continue reading
\nFrostbite settled the matter
\nof hiking out.
\nHe wrote detailed accounts
\nof the weather,
\nnoting the clear, icy air,
\nlittle flares of stars
\ndrawing no one’s attention.
\nNot so frigid this evening.<\/em>
\nA later entry read:
\nRibbed cirrus clouds moving in.<\/em>
\nThen tender goodbyes
\nto his wife and daughter–
\nmy lilac, my rose.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nhe wrote by his interior lights,
\nand when the battery failed
\nhe scratched in the dark
\na strange calligraphy,
\ncovering the same pages,
\nthe words telegraphic,
\nsaying only the necessary
\nas he starved.
\nIn the end,
\nhis script grew hallucinatory–
\n…toy train… \u00a0…oatmeal…
\n…farmhouse lights just ahead…–<\/em>
\nillegible, finally,
\nlike lines on a heart monitor.
\nSeveral pages he tore out and ate.<\/p>\n
\neven words wouldn’t save him.
\nStill, he wrote.
\nHe watched the windshield
\ngo white like a screen,
\nhis hands on the wheel,
\nno feeling.
\nHe listened to his heart
\nrepeat its constant SOS,
\nnot loudly now,
\nbut steadily–
\na stutterer who’s come to love
\nthe sound of his one syllable,
\nat peace with his inability
\nto get anything across.
\nHe must have pictured himself
\nwading through the drifts,
\ntraversing the heartbreaking distance
\nbetween voice and any ear,
\nsearching for tracks,
\na connector road that leads
\ndown to everyday life.
\nBy glow of moonlight filtered
\nthrough snow-jammed windows,
\nhis last act was to place his book,
\nopened to a page marked Day One,
\non the passenger seat beside him.<\/p>\n