With the Chilean Climber in Puerto Tranquilo, Patagonia

At the crag outside of town, his body springs
across the rockface with easy precision,

forearms lit up with tendon and vein,
palms sharpened with twin ridgelines

of snowcapped calluses. Mírame, he says,
working his way slowly through the sequence again,

exaggerating every twist of his torso,
every subtle articulation of wrist and ankle.

So I give it another shot. I'm making progress,
but my grip still shakes from lack of practice,

my hands torn and tender, and inevitably
I collapse onto the chalky crashpad.

I'm learning to laugh about it. This is Chile.
This country pressed so thin the light

shows though, even the Spanish
stretched into some strange new shape,

and all of us exist so near the edge
of something: The cliffside. The coastline.

The Argentine border. Everything here
gives me vertigo, even the sound of his voice.

Always the dizzy moment of freefall
between when he speaks a thing

and when I register its meaning.
It's true there are times I leap with grace

through this language, but there are times
the words slip like slick granite from my fingertips,

times when clarity comes like a crash.
But I'm making progress. I dust myself off

and try again. I lick the same wounds over and over
until my tongue learns the shape of them.