island farthest north, in perpetual daylight
Terrible continent no one has ridden,
I come from a country near ruin,
from a forest lit only by rifle fire,
where leaves are torn tongues
grown from plucked-out eyes,
where a boy, fallen from a tree,
lies bleeding for the wolves,
where men kill and then wash
the blood from their hands
into the rivers. I drank that water
and washed my feet in it.
Here I rinse my face in this light,
drink this snow, a primordial moment
I cup in my hands, now so cold
they’ve begun to blacken
from frost. The bones of the island
moan as I walk across them,
opening malignant flowers
Wind deepens the wounds
I leave with my boots. Nothing
is well. Even death’s bones
have broken so many times
they have no symmetry, but still
death is dutiful, I will be dutiful—
I will excavate the artifact,
sift shadows from the shadowless.
And I’ll be true to my love
if my love is not true to me.