June 17 - 19

June 17

an ekphraksis poem

Goodbye My Children

Our ship burns on purpose,
on whale oil. Its meal scrapes our teeth
preparing sinewy arms for the storm
– taller than the fjell, culling
more than the fjord we sail
– to rip the ropes from our callus-full hands,
to tear luaen from our red-eared heads,
to bat our ship like a bird from the air,
to cat-play with mice to the terrible end.
The water chums brown behind us,
trollene diving, stirring silt of safety.
But the deep of kokingen holds no power
of saving us – only that of redeeming finality
downing out that deluge of snow unhindering
from the mountains onto our kroppene,
onto our unblessed hands unceasing 
in hauling for whales in this ice,
hauling for fire in this water,
hauling for our lives, and whistling:
å utsette tiden –
stalling our time.

June 18

an ekphraksis poem

Hvaldød

There is no whale worth this cliff –
the sun sporing itself through the clouds
objects, looking down on the whales,
the cliffs, us, skvulpet on this roll
slid sideways, the pink and indigo of its eye
fryder in our jig towards the jags
of the crags, the zig and zags of trials
from these spiked slabs our bow
aims toward, despite our arms at the wheel.
The sun will watch us break on the whale –
the whale break on us –
the cliff breaks all grønn on its brun.
All oil of something will slide out
from someone’s fat and svaier on the storm
woken waves, tipped pink our noses, ears, fingertips
before breath squeezes out, then iceberg-bones us.
Senke oss ned i våre graver så dypt –
wake us, sun, wake us whale
warm us, steer us, uncliff us.
Hør oss if just once before the sun sits behind
our rudder, our clouds, our lives.
Å senke livene våre dypt inn i det neste –
deep, død, deep.

June 19

Twister (1996): Did You See My Cows Out Front?

I have seen Twister over 600 times.
I babysat myself each summer,
dumping the VHS into the VCR,
CRT TV squaring out the pixels, I rode
along with the storm chasers, those hodge-podge
collection of friend-family, found-family, 
soda-cans-improvised-into-propeller family.
I sang along with four different stereos
playing four different songs along synapses
of the CB radio of my brain, the undiagnosed
CPTSD canyon between the lobes of my brain.
I ate along, each lunch, each day, at Aunt Meg’s,
served up steak and eggs, wondering
about lightning,
about what it feels like to be hit.
Asking whether it’d be better to be hit
than screamed at, better to be hit
than windslide around the house in socks
avoiding notice, better to be hit
than be told I’d never be the thing
that’d get off the ground, better
to be hit, than told I was wacko, I was crazy.
I looked at Aunt Meg’s table,
with her steak and eggs and homemade lemonade,
I look still
and long. Each time, I ask 
to be lightning struck
over 600 times,
than remember fake silence
of not being struck.