All That Preparation

My sister called it funny.

The mud we used to skirt—

we thought it would take us under,

that soft patch of yard dirt

where the slope went into nothing.

We'd arc out wide, stay clear.

She said she'd looked up the science:

slow, survivable. No fear.

She laughed before I answered.

The call clicked off at two.

I thought about that mud patch,

the arc our feet went through—

all those careful mornings

routing around a thing

that would've only held us

a little. Just stinging

the pride. The sneakers, maybe.

I kept thinking of the care,

how much of it we'd given

to something that was there

the whole time, ordinary.

How we went around.

How we never once tested

what we'd found.