Angie Minkin
Driving to the Sun with my Daughter
Glacier National Park, August 2005
I wanted grizzlies and the wild
on our last day of indigo air,
you wanted mountain goats and crowds,
carped with each slow step on St. Mary’s Trail,
refused the stream’s shout, the thrill of three
silver-tipped bears running faster than God.
I swallowed copper-harsh words as we returned
to our red Yaris, dwarfed by a herd
of black Ford Rams, rifle racks locked and loaded.
Just to quiet you, I tossed the car keys in your lap.
I whistled as you sweated, the switchbacks
on the thin road thundered from granite,
edged only with sky and waterfalls.
We didn’t look down as we corkscrewed
our way to the sun. You drove straight
to the skeet-shooting range in Kalispell,
where George taught us the basics.
I couldn’t hit even one of those clay birds.
Dead-eye accurate, you couldn’t miss.
As you yelled, Pull, I retreated, opened
my hands, silently offered you all my ammo.
