Anne Graue
AVALANCHE
When the moon-washed stairwell rose up
I hadn’t had time to do the necessary
research on the Lascaux Cave that I so
wanted to do—how humans depicted bison,
deer, and ibex—so when my knee hit the floor
with all of me behind it, thoughts chased
other thoughts: what to do, no real harm
done, but how can this be another thing
that happens? An avalanche is sometimes
slow and deliberate, sometimes in a flurry
of waste and deconstruction. Life’s fragments
don’t add up to much of anything when
I am heaped on the floor wondering how
I got there, how I’ll be able to stand.