I take the square window and fold it up,
tuck it inside the small cupboard upon my left lung
and under my heart. The road is a leviathan’s tail
serpentine across the North American continent,
the gateway at the Top of the World spewing blue fire,
caribou, thistle, the wolverine’s hair sharp enough to pierce darkness.
I lean against the Salish Sea, the West a tether, this hoping pressing,
a blanket of cold that is Greenland’s gravity, gripping my hands
I am dragged through the Yukon, afloat upon the bodies
of my many many mounting accidents; this loving, this growing,
this seed I have been holding since I first gasped air and screamed
I clutch so dear it has embedded into my flesh and is tempt to spring.
The sink and seize and freeze of every bone, the pop
and throw and low of every stone I keep in this chest,
takes time to thicken, takes time to harden, takes time
to gather together into mountains. And
the Cascades cry, they swoon and moan,
as my forehead cracks, my throat dries,
my flesh solidifies and climbs upwards,
a heavy pyre, stabbing at the stars,
hunting heaven, pursuing the Cavern of Gods;
four wheels turning, roaring forward,
I am going home.
First published on Poet’s Corner September 22, 2016