The inclinometer is tied to him
literally hangs around his neck
we walk up and down in the woods
the sun gets lower and lower
behind the trees
he raises it to his eye
It’s hard to keep steady
while measuring the grade of the earth
cold feet and fingers
while making a bike trail
in west Des Moines, Iowa
crossing frozen creeks
the tree branches start to look like
upside down spiders in the sky
webs spiking into gray clouds
stars brighter away from the city
we march up and down
talk about how fast a cyclist will
descend
climb
The inclinometer wavers
trembles
as we look through it
line it up with our mouth or nose
to see how the ground rises and falls
.5 here or a -8 there.
Our faces blend with the lines and dots
till new faces are made
always malleable, memories through the woods
Jennifer MacBain-Stephens went to New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts and now lives in Iowa. She is the author of four full-length poetry collections and twelve chapbooks. Recent work is at or forthcoming from The Pinch, Yalobusha Review, and Grist. She hosts a reading series sponsored by the non-profit organization Iowa City Poetry called “Today You Are Perfect.” Find her at jennifermacbainstephens.com.