Fjord
low moon casts the world in brushstroke—
cleaves the distance carved by slow melt,
so i could reach out and touch the craggy
slide of my opposite shore. or so it seems.
contained: a sculpted wreck, snow pelt, the muffled
step of a bull moose, antler of hot breath escaping
the forest of its mouth. nearby, a husband and wife
clasp hands in my dusk. the black planets of a harp’s
eyes watch from my water. these creatures are
mostly night—begging at the moon, close enough
to kiss. they cut channels in each other—gathering
and releasing the silt of their terrains. this is how
they find their language—whisper of current
against my slope of smooth, wet shale.
Wolves
what come wing
drop branch
to snow we listen
close we fast
our slow we
move we quiet no
scrape no claw on
ice we pack
what fire break
mantle what
wreckage
of tree our
wound a wing
open in sun
we tongue
the bone want
marrow get
snow we fight
what furnace
of teeth our tangle
of hide we snarl
blood wing
what sun gone
blood song done
Aubade for Polar Night
on the third day we lose daylight
storm swallows an ephemeral sun
and seals our doors with snowdrift
if this is how we die i’ll take it
yesterday the snowpack laid me flat
along our piece of shore
showed us both the hungry harp
searching for a wounded bird
not the pair of us not our laughter
it’s dangerous this world we chose
to build a home to carry home
wolves take up the woods around us
this isn’t metaphor i’m speaking plain
we have nothing but night today
even the tide has tucked itself in
we’re bound and allowed to return
Fjord (Reprise)
Who owns the ice
I cliff this tide
The mother of land-
scape is violence
My father, slide
Header photo by Tatyana Vic, courtesy Shutterstock.