“…but he will not be able to find me,
will not be able to tell the hag from the tree,
boreal blood from birch sap.”
Filmed Poetry
On Climate Change, Winter, & our Fraught Relationship with Nature
In conversation with Karen McBride, author of Crow Winter (Harper Collins) about climate change, winter, & our fraught relationship with nature. Filmed over zoom for the book launch of The Wintermen III: At the End of the World.
Fox
I worship at the altar of fox.
She is the lord almighty and a
banshee rolled into one -
I’ve heard her in the night,
uncanny,
worthy of a prayer.
And she writes
sermons in the snow
for me to read.
This one
is about a chase -
fox and snowshoe hare,
tracks into ditches
under the cedars
perhaps then
into the deeper woods,
where the
Holy ghost and Host
become one:
fox then hare
hare then fox
until it is a tumble
and tangle of fur
unable to tell
one from the other
Fox and Hare
Alpha and Omega.
PUBLISHED POETRY
“Man’s Big Dog”
Don’t walk your big dog in front of my house,
not when the sky is yellow
and the lights have been turned down low.
Don’t walk your big dog past my house,
his thick, slow swagger
and heavy choke chain don’t scare me.
Don’t walk your big dog in front of my house
when the morning air is warm
and the sky has a sweet, deep redness to it.
“Boreal Selkie”
I shed my pelt on the shoreline,
leaving the warmth of the
glossy grey coat to shiver
and head for land.
I am careful to walk where the water
will erase my steps,
and then into the bulrushes
that will hide my trail
so I cannot be tracked.
I don’t want the man to know.
It is not out of lust that he watches for me -
my skin wraps my bones like
jack pine bark,
hair hanging in the plaques and tangles
of bleached seaweed.
No, this man does not watch for me out of desire,
he watches for me out of fear.
By the time my feet feel
the sponge of the forest floor,
he is getting his flashlight,
cursing himself for missing me,
pulling on his boots
and stepping out into the dark
to come and find me.
But he will get here,
into this forest he forgot to cut down,
and he will search and search,
but he will not be able to find me,
not be able to tell the hag from the tree,
boreal blood from birch sap.
He will retreat to check
his maps and machines
to see what they can tell him
about tracking a creature
that is born in water,
and goes to die amongst the trees.
“The Patriarchs of Tar & On Hunting”
“Bang for Their Buck”
Issue 4, The Riveter Review