Betwixt the Arctic and Here
I picked up a specter
and now it follows me as the bone-cold day moon follows me from her intangible
distance.
Everything on this island is melting. Everything is wet. The loss of one iceberg has set into motion the loss of many –
Blue jewels just slipping into the sea.
I am afraid of here. My lips are peeling white. My hands and feet are black. My eyebrows frosted. I have on high top sneakers and they too were not made for the snow.
Sound comes at me as a whooshing: the wind, the waves, the voice of the ghost. When I
finally meet another human, he speaks and I hear him as if I have put my ear to a large cavernous shell.
This morning, I looked the Great White Bear in the face – no, no in the eyes – and she mangled me with her indifference. I could die here if anything cared to devour me. If anything cared, I could be put to rest.
Each month a contemporary poet presents three poems and one personal essay in which food is consumed, passed over, or reckoned with. Nikki is our poet for March, 2014.
Nikki Burst is a writer and food blogger living in New York City. Her work can be found at Endive Civilization, Nerve.com, The Greenpoint Gazette, and Birdsong.
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