Notes on Alaska, Dec 2016 //

The sun sulks on the flat heartbeat horizon. Petulant child refusing to wake up. One eye open in contempt of the day. Blue rises above, endless and dense. An antique blue washed out and repainted a thousand times and more, sweeping over the heads of the brave few stumbling beneath it.

Shops are peculiar and specific. Aged fonts, misspellings on menus, seldom running buses and the day closes early. Yet the snow is still bright white, weeks after it fell. Here is the romance I am looking for.

The lights ran like flat wide arcs across the sky. Faint and dusty, rings of Saturn. At times dart like and sylphy, the tail of a comet caught in a trick mirror. You can’t look directly at them else they’ll disappear.

We drank whiskey from a plastic bottle while my eyelashes froze; we bought coffee at 1am from a gas station and walked with our hands in our armpits, sleeves loose, flapping like penguins down the highway. Six miles in the cold.

The boys hollered in the driveway and smoked cigarettes. I stood in the middle of the street and tilted my head back so far my neck ached and my eyes swam with the cold. I breathed in the biting air and saw the lights, faint now and the trees in my periphery. A glimpse of a dream I have held in my soul for some time.

The ravens are fat black chickens. Feathers fluffed and protruding at crooked angles, chests inflated. Large wings creak out as if on hinges as they perch heavily on gateposts, car roofs and feeble tree branches. When they fly they appear as eagles, shadows of eagles, vast.

It feels good not to be talking. To keep inside my head. Maybe it’s all the snow. The thoughts, they drift through the quiet rooms, dust motes with no purpose. Settling now on the furniture of my mind.

What would it be like to meet you here, when the snow has gone and laid you bare.

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