Antony Christie
Buying the Island
was your idea,
last fall, when the maples were
(of course)
red-orange
and green lights grew in the north sky.
in the first sharp mornings
careless of clothes and conversation
we threw off the quilt
and probed with words and tongue
the texture of new maps.
now, caught in the silence of stoves,
there is too much light -
the ice is treacherous,
currents scrape at it, make pit-traps,
hide them with new snow.
we look at each other with teeth,
draw in our blankets
like the ghosts of the old nations.
we have discovered
how easy it is to crave raw food.
Page(s) 36
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