Peppercorns in the Snow
Waiting for the lifts to the Shawnee ski slopes, I can't help
but thank my mask and goggles. While the summer's oat-
like terrains drift across the rim of snow, frost fattens
the bare branches woven against the mountain sides. Inside
my goggles, fog swathes my view, and the droplets
of my own breath perish above my lips, caged in the white
of the mask. But I relish the way they shield over my
face. Maybe it's because of the swelling grease bumping
against my pained skin like a ripe Clémentine.
And maybe that's the reason why years ago I named myself
after a fruit when my teacher said my name didn't sound French enough. Or maybe it's
because these lanes of skiers reflect
images of lunchtime at school with the Korean girls who remind me of crimson peppercorns,
sinking to the bottom of a grinder, holding the weight of the rest as gravity colors the
pepper
into stripes. And I fear that if any of my gears were to fall off,
the children and their parents would inch away, or my back
would be set on fire like the Chinese grandmother in New York. So
for now, I drift along the wires of the lifts and gaze at the snowflakes
riddling through my view.