In a strait, some things are useful. Others, true, she turns to ash. Thrust, thus— her head thick with arrogance, infection and futility. It could be how a young wife went, strewn with net-veined willow and mountain aven— trespass, and wreckage. She could write about the year she turned to heat and haze, to laze: immurmurat-, imauraaqtuŋa. Of cannula and silver nitrate. Of petiolus and achene, about to begin again. Of greens as they green. Of a man aged, eskered. Of a confined gleam— to hereby dissolve and hold for naught the soil / gravel / silt groaning as the tools of our penultimate glacier, a glacier I might pronounce like grief. One does wish for words to thaw in the mouth, but find instead a tongue, welt. Erosional or depositional, raised & visible, rift into language & grit— Copyright © 2019 by Joan Naviyuk Kane. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 26, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. |
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