by Colin de Chardin McKay
i am a pair of moccasins pitter pattering
through the quiet forest. the forest is quiet
and it is green, and the stream runs quick
and silver and freezing it is on my face
bathing in the woods. my skin wet and
dark and in closing my eyes there is a
woman, whose horns slide out and curl
above her small ears: they are bone coils
and they are antlers but not of the deer
nor the moose nor the antelope, but of
the demon. i am sure they are of some
burning body. some set of lungs that breathe
and hiss like striking a match in the midwestern
winters, when the sun leaves for months.
and steel takes its position. the sun is the
center of the universe and it is orange and
combusting suspended, and I leave for months
in the midwestern winter. i remember a night.
i was younger. my skin still stretched tight.
i was sleeping in yellow knife. in the sleeping
bag, i was a caterpillar. a truck drove up and
idled in front of me for a minute or so, and
pulled away,
and everything changed. i felt everything change.
