Coming To In a Grove of Antlers
My second language was born
of absence. Desire, and need. First fur,
then came gold. A let’s-pretend realism
flimmering in the mouth. You have left
so much here, with me, to weather.
I go down a little
slope to where the trapper cabin
leans, thewy, humbly knuckled to a weedy
gravel lot. There, there. In the back splitting
spruce I see a gray jay and think, Here
is where I’ll dig my den. I’ll rubble my shadow
with snow. Then, with its damper pedal down,
I’ll overhear some gentle dying—
The snow comes over you, you are overcome with snow.
I’ll let this small death in, place its trembling
repose in a bowl of crowberries, frozen
bits of meat stacked beside it. I’ll scrape it
with my knife.
Outside a winter bear has been
swatting at ravens, ratcheting wildly the space
between. Me, the window. I go over to have
a look. I walk toward the window, whitening.
| Nolan Chessman |
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