Aurochs to Zorra

Wrick

Wrick


In 1992, the lobstered beaches beckoned
you to Maine and me to Spain,
to learn the language, so I told them.
         I learned much more along the prado,
         by the beach in Badalona,
         I became a man … of sorts.
When I returned I was the ‘boy’
who knew too much and you too little.
So I taught you love of life.
         But that is not how it began.
         It started twenty years ago
         and now you say you do not know
         that day when you your ankle wricked?
But I will tell the story true.
You were 12 … and … I was, too.
You ran through woods where ground was damp and leaves
were slick. First sight of me,
you stumbled over sticks
and plopped right down upon the moss,
writhed a little, clenched your breath.
         I saw your pain. Came over kissed
         the sprain to make it better.
         Your sobbing paused … and so did I.
We limped in silence back together
to the town to get it wrapped and fixed.
         So you forgot! But I remember, 1984, November,
         when first we met beneath the mist,
         your ankle wricked and I heartsick.
Both healed by a kiss.


© Kåre Enga

wrick: to wrench, strain