PF POTVIN


The Rigger


For years I’ve moored these lines for you, son. Hammered them steep into the flesh of my hands. Bored them twisting through the bones. And as the seasons weather by, I’ve labored in the shadows and helped you rise, limb by limb, until here you stand upon my hand, taller than I can bear. You turn now and splay your arms like a cross, tapping your toe to test the give. You flex at the knees, lowering your center, inching out. After a few seconds to square your weight and keep from spinning, you glide further along, neither of us sure enough to say farewell or question the other end of all this holding.


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