Snapshots of a 5am Training Session at Fashion Island Mall, Circa 1985
For Marc Alan Di Martino
 
4:45am
 
The hush of an abandoned parking lot.
The sky, shifting in sleep, not yet willing
to twirl into its ensemble of dawn
pastels. How you could hear raccoons crinkling
 
inside bushes, sharp notes of starling song
rising in pandemonium, the clang
of the city´s first garbage truck beyond  
the horizon of your frosted haven.  
 
Think, prelude to the decade´s most chilling
horror film except no vexed ghosts in chains
lurking near, just a shock of ice spilling
its breath, awaiting the cut of your blades.
 
The way the sidewalk shook under your feet
when the door opened like a scrimmage scene.
 
4:55am
 
When the door opened like a scrimmage scene
in you staggered, skating bag strapped over
your shoulder, more a journeyer in need
of food and lodging. Your yawn would hover
 
above the threshold, your feet track moonlight
across the rubber floor on your way toward
the benches. Prick of carpet on your thighs.
The pride you displayed on your chest like gold  
 
when someone at last opened you a space  
among the older, hipper crowd. No one
risked usurping another skater´s place,  
certain they´d find all their gear shoved along.
 
Bodies bent forward like trees severed mute,
creak of leather as you laced up your boots.
 
5:15am
 
Creak of leather as you laced up your boots
tighter. So much depended on the patch  
you were assigned: glazed as rain wash or loose
and bumpy as a wheelbarrow ride. Watch
 
scribes brandished, points sharp enough to slice skin
except the only war waged was through strain
of body: strength, balance, and precision,
a battle for the perfect figure eight.
 
One wobble or untraced curve and future  
medals fell to slivers before your eyes.  
How you´d glide round and round, a real trooper,
perform three-turns, rockers, and loops, delight
 
or defeat glowing in your coach´s gaze,
the vast silence swathing you like a haze.
 
5:30am
 
The vast silence swathing you like a haze
until a mishap of laughter, more blare  
than tinkle, crash-landed on the chilled breeze.
The skating parents, burrowed in puffer
 
coats, scarves, presiding over the Happy  
Donut tables, preaching yesterday´s vine,  
dipping donuts and scones into coffee  
as if it were consecrated. Divine  
 
voice of their dedication but a sigh   
amid a hail of demands: apparel,  
pinball machine coins, water, or a bite.
Unsaid gratitude you´d Sasha spiral  
 
into a poem as you watched your tykes
tottering years later across the ice.
 
5:45am
 
Tottering years later across the ice
as an adult, you´d slip and fall, recall  
the freedom of freestyle! Bodies in flight,
twirling around you like a spectacle  
 
of vortices. The way your eyes grew eyes
to avoid collision. Races to claim
the coveted Lutz corner or flying  
camel middle. Finally! you proclaimed
 
upon landing your double axel clean,
how your face blazed like an Olympic flame,
for fame, after all, was your childhood dream.
Dreams turned ash after every break and sprain.  
 
Hanz the DJ playing your program tape.
Your coach´s frown when you savored a break.
 
8:15am
 
Your coach´s frown when you savored a break-
fast that would rile the scale on weigh-in days
but you were certain your double chocolate
muffin was no match for mornings on skates,
 
thousands of training sessions clocked in your
muscles, temples glistening like rhinestones
beaded on your competition attire.
After practice, pubescent chatter thrown
 
over bathroom stalls as you changed for school,
disguising body odor with cologne  
and deodorant. You thought you were cool
skipping PE, crossing campus alone.
 
Shame on your cheeks after falling asleep.
Head on desk, sunk in waves of victory.
 
2021. 5am
 
Head on desk, sunk in waves of victory
declared in verse, you spin out a poem
that will freeze in time all your memories.
You know these snapshots will flounder if shown
 
shorn of orbs: Scott the Zamboni driver
whose lacerated body would be found
in a gas station dumpster one winter.
Friends who departed as life skated on:
 
Elizabeth, Cindy, Ilene, and Jen  
power stroking on the edge of your mind,
their nightly artistry a perfect ten,
echo of applause on the other side.
 
Their sequins wink when you begin to plot
the hush of an abandoned parking lot.
 
                                                ─ After Taylor Bass´s “South Side”

Julie Weiss
 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Julie Weiss would be pleased to hear them.