These poems are rooted in the natural world—woods, water, and sky. The places we pass through and return to.
ignition
the morning sky burns;
crimson
yet the frigid ground
rebels.
from the driver’s seat the world is blurred;
a wasteland of white and gray.
I twist the key and pray the rusty Ford delivers,
where the gods have failed.
the engine coughs,
it lets loose a metallic howl.
the gritty feel of grinding gears
beneath my boot.
from the console, a bottle of Motrin rattles;
it’s almost empty.
and yet, our engines grind
with ragged breaths merging.
beneath yard-planted pines,
the Robins struggle,
blunting their beaks against the frozen ground.
they bleed, but endure.
eye in the sky
white-whisked clouds
circle the sun,
their bellies burned
pink.
like an eye,
rubbed raw
scratched
by dirty fingers.
I speed toward it,
never gaining.
watching it stare,
unblinking.
I stare back.
the day won’t end.
my mind won’t quiet.
the eye hangs low,
amused,
burning daylight
into clouds.
I run a red—
annoyed.
it keeps its distance.
neutral
to night
and day.
from the south
a sky bleeding
ebony and granite.
blows hard with wind.
the eye closes.
with no sun to burn
the rain away,
it falls.
gravel pops.
brakes scream.
the engine dies.
only the tapping
of rain
on glass.
then my reflection
in the rearview—
looking back.
no blinking.
cloud cover
beneath tightly packed rows
of rippling gray.
i was swept to the horizon.
leaving pieces of me
carelessly strewn about
the supple earth.
i traced the seams
with glazing eyes,
while the turkey vultures circled.
i found a loose thread
and pulling, the final pull
climbed through.
on my face,
a familiar warmth.
a soft chime in my ears.
a bittersweetness in my nostrils.
a numbness in my toes.
i stood anchored,
in the burning fog,
swaddled in radiant
light
i let my head sag;
my eyelids fall;
and remained.
Nick Viau 