with our hands we dig new tributaries
we heed the call of Lake Superior
intrepid and yet so rooted in one place
as distance and digging tell me I am –
its hairline ripples, the hearths aglow
on its archipelagic shores
water held against its will by giant weirs
moose antler cairns, moose antler curses
sunken elk far afield of its crystal tracts
dappled with old age, dew from arrowed ferns –
as she tires, I feel that my pace quickens
just as the antithesis happens when we fuck
no more free space behind my fingernails
I’ve been too awestruck, too occupied to bite
no pain but an ecstatic quiver in my back
dirt in the crook of her elbow, eyes overcast
with effort, a sense that this is all for naught
our bare hands are well-meaning but not enough
the hummingbird chasing the hawk always falls short
the hair on her arms too short to be moved by the wind
–
I paw at wet soil and rub my hands together
until what comes away is warm, short pastry-like
over-handled, smells like darkest winter –
the sound of the friction calls to animals
who answer silently – she’s up to her knees
in this enterprise uniting us through strangeness.
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