December to Remember Sales Event

I found the hedgehog at the top of the hill

rolled in a ball, frightened by a car—or so 

I hoped—its quills expertly splayed in self-defense. 

The hill with an 18.8% pitch. The only link 

between dorm room and lecture hall.

The one I sprinted down to meet the boy 

who said he’d sleep with me if I made it there by midnight. 

The one I slogged up after leaving my boyfriend

the night his boyfriend showed up. Though

I’m not sure he would’ve claimed I was his boyfriend. 

We only slept together once. And not even that. 

But even small things back then felt large. 

Take living in another country, when a trip 

to the farmer’s market was a lesson in semantics,

the difference between fresh and still alive

Where even a remote road lined by shrubs of beech 

offers up the surprise of your first hedgehog. 

Last December a friend posted a photo from back then, 

our laughs convincing us nothing could harm us 

if we curled tight enough in on ourselves.

The same friend I walked home with after school 

when we almost missed the brewery festival. 

No inflatable long-armed man bowing to us 

from the entrance. No underpaid employee 

twirling a sign that read: Amazing Things Await! 

Just a local gathering hidden behind a wooden gate

and a makeshift maze we navigated on a motorized keg 

all while drinking from a never-ending stein. 

Later I peddled the 18.8% incline with her 

standing on the back, then fell asleep curled in her bed, 

cause we both were too afraid to sleep alone. 

 

Photo of Nicholl's face 

 

Greg Nicholl is a freelance editor whose poetry has recently appeared in Best New Poets 2023, Gulf Coast, New Ohio Review, Nimrod, Sugar House Review, West Branch, and elsewhere. He is the winner of the 2021 River Styx International Poetry Contest.