Published in Salt River Review Volume 13, Number 1 & 2, Fall/Winter 2010
I, who have rarely seen sanity,
or a caravan of Siberian huskies stroll
with their pack through the soft white snow,
have no appreciation for winter's twilight-silence,
or the ruckus of grizzlies ravaging
I ask: Is anyone willing
to put their hand in place of mine
on the chopping block, or their signature on paper
to demand investigations into all that has been stolen
on my passage through this life?
I have not witnessed tenderness,
nor do I feel excitement upon observing
the child fed from the safety of its mother's hands.
Only rumors of the existence of distant cities,
where harsh winters outlast serene summers,
accelerate the rhythm of my blood.
That chill is mine.
I, who have rarely felt reason, have played
with water and snow. I've wrapped them around
my legs, given them form with my hands like a lover.
I, who am fed-up with listening to wolves
and sleeping under willows, no longer tremble
when they throw down my door to take me
where neither water nor snow exists.
Do you understand? It is nothing more
than a short visit to the crying room
of a psychiatric hospital, a show
to impress the animal
that sleeps beneath