If Aaron falls from the low crux
he breaks a leg. Any higher will bring
the reapers. He manages the tricky move
and commits to the steep arête.
Josie below asks her lover one last time
to use a rope like any sane man.
But why? His mind is clear,
the rock soothing.
Nearing the summit, he stretches
for a pivotal hold, misses by a fingernail,
retreats and rests by alternating his feet
on an edge the size of a domino.
A tremor compromises one leg
and the reapers get word. They rock up
whooping, pile out of their hearse,
undertake a fresh induction.
Last time Aaron finished a solo climb
the dog slunk away, and he craved
sky-drenched love with Josie.
She delivered the final ultimatum.
Sweat now beads his temples, reapers
flirt with his fingers and lick the soles
of his Sportivas. Trees below appear tiny,
Josie too, arms crossed, not looking.
Must get the feet higher, Aaron whispers.
The rock exudes gun-powdery warmth.
His tremor settles, his breathing slows,
the reapers lament.
Aaron executes the final moves, collapses
onto the altar-like sandstone platform,
arms wide, imploring joy.
Nothing. He scans the void.
No Josie below. Then he spots her –
soloing the pathway out.
