The Ladders

After Carl Phillips

Even when surrounded by all these trees that can be 

admired, rested under, shaded by, photographed

against, and given the gentlest of caresses my gloved hands

may offer, I find myself most drawn to the red ladders

that pepper the edges of the Central Park lake. I should be

trying to guess the names of the trees around me,
                                but instead I think more

about how often these ladders must be used. The red paint is
chipping, no doubt dyeing any seeds that get carried to them

by pigeons, so I figure they get used regularly during
a cinematic New York City winter,
                                                      but that would mean that
there are constant tests of the strength of the ice out on the

lake. That dares are made, bets solidified, camera phones

ready to film as someone treks from one lake

edge to the other, or some foolish dreamer attempts to ice

skate after looking up a weather report.
                                                             These ladders would
have to be taken down from their hooks, crosses undone,

and held out to those who are beginning to numb from their
toes to their crowns, in hopes that they are not swept under
the frosted glass.
                         Seasons subside, seeds sprout, leaves lose

their luster, and nature never lets us forget why it was important
for us to cut down trees to make ladders, and why it wants

us to save ourselves with its wood in the dead of winter.

Alex Carrigan (he/him) is a Pushcart-nominated editor, poet, and critic from Alexandria, VA. He is the author of Now Let’s Get Brunch: A Collection of RuPaul’s Drag Race Twitter Poetry (Querencia Press, 2023) and May All Our Pain Be Champagne: A Collection of Real Housewives Twitter Poetry (Alien Buddha Press, 2022).